All in Your Head
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: Sequel to "With Sugar on Top." Dean is struggling. He'd gone his entire life without slipping - without letting his feelings for Sam, or his kinks when it comes to him, out. So his recent screw-up has left him shaken. The fact that Sam seems somehow different doesn't help. WARNING: Contains Wincest, stuffing, feeding, gluttony, chubby!Sam, belly worship, and FA!Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**Sequel to "With Sugar on Top."**

 **I try to write PWP, I really do. But it always ends up growing a plot. An angsty, Wincestuous plot.**

 **(This whole thing is written and typed. I'll post a new chapter once a week.)**

* * *

Dean had been pretty stressed lately.

It wasn't like he had any shortage of things to wear on him - he had almost too many to choose from, which'd become a depressingly common issue for him over the last decade. There was Amara, first of all. Then however it was he felt about her, which he hadn't figured out yet and wasn't sure he wanted to. And then Lucifer running around in Castiel's vessel. God apparently abandoning all of them to the mercy of His sister, which did bother Dean, even if he'd never consider admitting it. Crowley and Rowena; he didn't like it when he didn't know exactly where they were and what they were doing. Billie the reaper and her grudge against him and Sam.

And speaking of Sam, one of the weights on Dean's shoulders right now had to do with him. What Dean had done to him a few months ago, specifically. He'd kept that part of himself walled away for...forever, practically. Not even the Mark of Cain had managed to bring all those sick sexual desires to the surface, because Dean had devoted so much of his energy to keeping them down where they belonged. Then they'd all broken out and wreaked havoc after the zanna case. Just because Sam'd mentioned a stupid thing he'd wanted to do when he was little.

It was disturbing, and Dean lack of control had left him rattled. Him giving into his weird-ass, dangerous fetishes was probably the least-threatening problem that'd sprung up lately, on a grand scale, but on a smaller one, it was the most threatening thing to Dean's relationship with Sam. And that was kind of an important thing to him right now. With Castiel gone and just about all their other friends dead or otherwise out of reach, Sam was the only one Dean could lean on. Just like old times. And for what felt like the first time in years, they were as close as they'd been when they were kids, because they weren't keeping any secrets from each other.

Well. Except for the reason that Dean had done that thing to Sam about six months ago.

And how he felt about what was happening now.

"Hey...are you gonna finish that?"

"It" was chili fries, still hot, that'd come with a bacon cheeseburger - and those two things together'd been an actual option on the menu. It was a rare occurrence for Dean to find a diner that did that, instead of making him put the two of them together himself and run the risk of a disapproving look from the waitress, and he thought that made it taste better than usual. He really would've liked to finish the fries; he still had room. Hell, he was still hungry. And even if he hadn't been, he should've kept them.

Dean knew all of that. There'd been a serious disconnect between his brain and his body lately, though, and a reminder of that was slammed home when his arm moved by itself. He really hadn't meant to shove the plastic basket, lined with checkered parchment paper and with french fry grease pooling in the empty space where the burger had been, across the table, but it happened anyway. And Sam, who'd already demolished a cheeseburger and fries of his own, caught it easily and dug in with a fork.

Everything about it was familiar, since it'd been repeating itself practically every time they ate for a couple months now. As far as Dean was concerned, the only part that was in character for Sam, as he'd known him for thirty-odd years, was the fork. Unlike Dean, he had a thing about getting grease and chili all over the place. Never mind the fact that he'd never eaten chili fries in his life until recently. Dean would need the fingers of both hands - and then some - to tick off all the times he'd flatly told him they were "disgusting."

Dean didn't comment on how he hadn't thought Sam liked his fries like that, like he had the first few times Sam'd gone for things he never would've touched with a ten-foot pole before. He knew Sam would just mildly reply that he'd thought it was about time he at least tried it. The conversation wouldn't go anywhere if he pointed out Sam had been a picky eater since they started him on solid food, so he stayed quiet 'til their waitress walked by.

Leaning out of the booth to catch her attention, Dean asked, "Say, sweetheart, could you grab me a slice of the apple pie? And if you could drop a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, that'd be awesome." He tacked a smile on at the end. Flirting was a conscious effort, but one he knew he had to make.

The waitress smiled back. She was tan, with dark hair and blue eyes, and Dean pegged her as being somewhere in her mid-twenties. Might revise that if he saw her with her makeup off, and Dean sincerely, if grimly, hoped that wound up happening. He'd been going out of his way to hit on every woman (and man, if he thought he could get away with it without Sam noticing) he came across with that specific coloring, figuring he could fix at least one of his current problems if he could just come with his hands buried in brunette hair and his freckled flesh pressing against bare skin a few shades darker than his own.

Especially if the owner of that hair and skin was carrying a few extra pounds. Which the waitress - Beth, according to the nametag clipped right above one of her large breasts - was. She was tall, too, just a big girl all around. She was perfect. He'd have to make sure he was trying as hard as he could to get her into bed.

She smiled back. That was promising. She glanced at Sam when he swallowed a mouthful of fries and said, "Make it two."

"Sure thing." They were in the Oklahoma panhandle, so she had a slight drawl. Dean told himself he liked that. "Lemme get you boys a refill while I'm at it." She leaned over the table to grab their empty plastic glasses. Dean was drinking Coke, Sam unsweetened iced tea, so at least a few things hadn't changed.

Dean focused on her breasts until she straightened up, then her ass as she walked away. They were great breasts, and it was great ass, near as he could tell with her uniform blocking his view. He should've been interested, excited. He wasn't.

And now she was out of sight. Dean didn't wanna look at Sam, knew it wouldn't be a good idea, but then his body moved without his permission again. He would've thought he was possessed, but the tattoo on his chest was still firmly in place and, of course, the Mark wasn't an issue anymore, thanks to Sam's short-sighted selfishness.

He felt guilty the second he thought that. Sure, he'd bitched Sam out for letting the Darkness out of her crate, but he'd been painfully aware the entire time that he would've done exactly the same thing if they'd been switched around.

Sam'd finished with the chili fries, pushing the empty basket to the edge of the table and setting his fork back down on the napkin his silverware had come wrapped in. His hands were folded on the table in front of him and he was staring out the window at the darkened parking lot. He looked tired, both his real face and the one reflected in the window.

That wasn't a surprise - they'd just wrapped up a grueling hunt. The ghost of a Plains Indian, stirred up by an intern accidentally dropping some pottery on the floor at the local museum, had been causing some issues. There'd been lots of trekking all over what'd felt like the entire prairie to find the grave (and then Sam'd bitched about the salt-and-burn they'd had to do, because it was a significant archaeological site or something and they were ruining it). It'd been mostly research work lately, staying put, only leaving the bunker and the nearby town for a hunt once or twice a month. Dean was sore from his toenails to his eyelids, after days of wading through waist-high grass under a boiling sun and digging through sod. Sam had to be feeling it even worse than he was.

And then there was poor Baby. The dirt they'd accidentally brought in onto her floor mats made Dean start thinking about how else she could be violated on this hunt.

"You puke in my car, I'll put you in a cast," Dean spoke up. Sam blinked, apparently startled out of his thoughts, and turned to look at him.

"Why would I puke?" he asked.

"Well..." Dean held up a hand, ticking off fingers as he talked. "A cheeseburger, two orders of fries - one of 'em with chili on it - and now pie and ice cream. Just seems like a lot. 'Specially for you."

A smile tugged at the corners of Sam's mouth. "I'm not gonna make myself sick."

"You sure?" Dean folded his arms on the table and leaned on them. "'Cause if you do, I'm not holding your hair back. Even if you manage to puke outside the car."

"I can eat more than this and be just fine." Sam moved his hands off the table and leaned back against the red vinyl of the booth. That almost-smile was still on his face. "You know I can."

Dean broke eye contact immediately at that. Looked away from Sam entirely, actually. He swallowed, a wave of way-too-familiar guilt rolling over him. He _did_ know and, god, did he regret finding out. No way could he handle telling Sam what was wrong with him, though. Especially because, with the way Sam had been acting lately, he was starting to worry it was contagious.

Dean looked up at their waitress when she came back, carrying compelling evidence for that. She set their glasses down first, and Dean grabbed his immediately in order to gulp at the Coke inside, craving something stronger. Sam reached for his fork again when she put a saucer with a slice of pie on it in front of each of them. Dean had to admit that it looked pretty good; way better than the usual diner fare that he was used to. It was even warm, the ice cream on top slowly melting into the streusel topping. Dean was distracted enough by it that he didn't notice the folded napkin the waitress had tucked under his plate until she'd walked away.

Sam paused, swallowing the bite he'd already taken, when Dean tugged it out. "What's that?"

Dean unfolded it, scanning what'd been scrawled on it in black pen, then flipped it around to show Sam. A phone number, area code added at the beginning and a swirly little heart at the end. Their waitress's name and what Dean assumed was the time she got off tonight was underneath.

Sam was a faster reader than him. He sat back, face settling into a neutral expression, after only a few seconds, and Dean smirked. Half-smirked. Whatever, he tried.

"Barely even had to try for that one," he said, setting the napkin down and picking up his own fork, which he hadn't touched before now.

"Getting a little old for random women to be slipping you their numbers, don't you think?" Sam asked, with a cough to clear his throat and a dry little bounce of his eyebrows.

"Shut up." Dean stabbed his fork into his pie. Tasted like it'd been warmed up in the microwave when he put it in his mouth - the crust was a little soggy.

"You gonna call her?" Sam asked through a partially-full mouth. Dean heard his fork scraping against the porcelain of his plate.

"Maybe." He should. No, he _needed_ to, he forcefully reminded himself. He needed to. So he set his fork aside, pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jeans, and went ahead and entered her name and number. Half the battle right there. He didn't realize Sam had been watching him the whole time, and closely, until he dropped his phone on top of the napkin and happened to glance at him.

Sam looked away as soon as Dean's eyes met his, going back to his pie. It was Dean's turn to watch him, for a second, at least, as he ate steadily and nursed his tea between bites. Dean wondered what was up with him; he was acting weirder than usual tonight.

It was a few minutes before either of them spoke up again. Dean was almost finished with his pie, which he was pretty sure was made with canned apples and not fresh, by then.

"Tonight?" Sam asked. Dean knew immediately what he was talking about.

"I don't know," he said wearily, answering before he thought it through. Which was a pretty common problem for him, if he was being honest. Before Sam could ask him why he sounded so unenthusiastic about hooking up with a pretty girl and maybe get another too-honest answer outta him, he tried to turn it back around on him. "Why the hell d'you care so much, anyway?"

Sam didn't answer. Dean speared the last chunk of soggy crust before looking up at him again - and managed to accidentally bite the tines of the fork when he stuck it in his mouth, distracted. He swore loudly, dropping the fork on the table with a clatter and clapping a hand to his mouth. He squeezed, pressing his lips against his front teeth to try and sooth the sickening ache in them. He blinked rapidly as his eyes watered with pain.

Shit, that'd _hurt._ Dean's teeth were in pretty good shape, despite the sugar-heavy diet Sam had spent years nagging him about and the number of times he'd been hit in the mouth, so dental pain was always a nasty shock for him. He grudgingly welcomed it this time, though. It'd kicked him right out of the thoughts that'd stormed into his mind when he looked at Sam.

"Oh - what'd you do?" Sam leaned forward, concerned. Doing that must've pressed on his stomach, because he put his own hand to his mouth to stifle a burp that Dean thought sounded downright dainty. "Did you bite your lip?"

Dean shook his head, squinting as the ache slowly started fading. His free hand was resting on the table, clenched into a fist. He saw Sam move to reach for it, and reflexively jerked it away, all the barriers he'd been setting up since puberty back in place. "Don't touch me."

He forced himself to keep his gaze aimed firmly away from Sam, able to picture the wounded look he'd see in his eyes just fine. He was worried that'd have the same effect on him that the look in Sam's eyes right before he'd bit the fork had had. He'd maybe been a little troubled by the question that Dean had just asked him, but he'd mostly looked sleepy. Satisfied and content after the big meal he'd just eaten. His full lips were wet from his tea, his dark hair was glossy and soft-looking where it fell on either side of his face, and maybe, _maybe_ , the barely-there softness on those outstanding cheekbones of his hadn't just been in Dean's imagination.

He'd looked beautiful, like he had millions of other inappropriate times over the course of Dean's life. Perfect. And this time, he'd almost looked like he was catering exactly to all the things Dean secretly wanted. It'd all come together to make something jump and twitch below Dean's belt. He'd realized he was tired, and that he hadn't even touched himself in months out of guilt, and that he wasn't feeling nearly as strong right now as he was pretty sure he needed to be. He was afraid that it was gonna happen again. He just knew he was gonna lose control of himself again in some way. And then he hurt himself, and it was all okay again.

He just had to keep it like that. That was the hard part.

"Let's get outta here," Dean said, to break the awkward silence that'd fallen over them. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and shelled a twenty and a ten, the cost of what they'd eaten plus a generous tip, onto the table. He wasn't going to make Sam pay after he'd snapped at him, even though pretty much all their money was shared.

He stood up and grabbed his phone. At the last minute, he remembered to grab the napkin under it, too, stuffing it in his pocket. It was more important than ever that he make Beth the waitress think he was interested in her, and leaving her number for her to find when she cleared the table probably wasn't the best way to do that.

He watched Sam get up. As usual, it was kind of an ordeal, and Dean did his best not to pay too much attention, afraid of what it might do to him. Sam slid to the end of the booth, turned, and hauled himself up with a groan of effort. It took him half a second to steady himself on his feet, then he put a large hand on his stomach, rubbing absentmindedly through his shirt.

Dean wanted to ignore Sam's belly, but he couldn't not look at him, at it, when he straightened up. He hated that this happened to him so often. Sam was noticeably full. More than full, actually; you could probably say he was bloated, stuffed. Not quite like he'd been after the waffles, but still.

That wasn't all, though. Tonight wasn't the first time Sam'd eaten like this, or even the second, counting the waffle thing. It'd been a couple months. A couple months of breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and snacks that Dean would've been better suited for. He hadn't seen Sam skip a meal since whatever the hell this was had started, and they were always at least twice as large as what he'd used to eat. He'd completely given up salads and egg-white omelettes. He'd stopped jogging, too, and he didn't spend nearly as much time in the bunker's gym as he had in the past. Dean only ever saw him doing the lightest, most basic stuff in there anymore.

He hadn't let himself get close enough to Sam to tell for sure, but he thought his arms and chest were basically the same. Still chiseled and muscle-bound, in other words, because most of the weight he'd gained had settled around his middle in a small, rounded gut and solid love handles. When it was Dean's turn to do the laundry, he'd noticed the sizes (and shapes) of the jeans in Sam's bag ticking up, so some of all the extra calories he hadn't been working off had to've been going to his ass and thighs, too. Not that Dean had let himself look. Or even think about it for more than a couple seconds. Sam deserved better than that, and Dean knew how bad a place that kind of fantasizing could end up landing them both in.

They went out to the car. Sam was breathing a little heavily and the walking forced more of those tiny burps out of him. Dean wasn't listening, but he seethed at himself for thinking they were cute for a second while he unlocked Baby and slid into the driver's seat. Sam maneuvered himself in on the passenger side. The diner was too small to have lights in its parking lot, so Dean wouldn't've been able to see Sam's swollen belly even if he'd happened to look over at him. Thank god for small mercies.

"So...you wanna go home, or spend another night here?" Sam asked tentatively as Dean was looking for the keys.

Dean paused. He knew what answer he should give, just right off the top of his head, but instead, he sat there and thought about it for a minute. What staying another night would mean. They'd have to go back to the motel, check back into the room they'd left this afternoon, and pay another nightly rate. He'd have to sit in that small space, alone with Sam, until Beth's shift ended, then call her and set up a meeting place. If it was a bar, he'd have to buy her a drink. He'd have to flirt. Probably not much, since all it'd taken to get her number was a smile and a cutesy nickname, but he'd still have to make an effort to get her to take him home.

Dean was tired, and not just physically. It felt like the exhaustion ran deeper than his body, which reminded him of how he'd felt right before the Mark had completely taken over, seeing its chance when his heart stopped for the most recent time. He should probably be concerned about that. Like he was concerned about what he'd have to think about to get his engine going with Beth. He could pretend to be into her until they got naked, but he couldn't pretend a boner.

"Home, I guess," Dean decided. It was a weight off his shoulders, one he felt guilty about getting rid of. He put the key in the ignition and twisted. Like always, she faithfully roared to life, the growl of the engine juddering through her whole body and making Dean's seat vibrate. He saw Sam move. Probably touching his stomach again. "I wanna sleep in my own bed."

"Okay." Sam sounded happy. Of course he did - he was tired, too, and he had to be right on the edge of dozing off with that food baby. His own bed probably sounded pretty good to him, too.

They weren't too far from the bunker, thankfully. It was only a few-hour drive, which was good, because Dean had a hard time even keeping his eyes open for that long. Normally, he would've talked to Sam to keep himself awake. Or blasted music. But Sam had fallen asleep within twenty minutes of getting out on the open road (which might not've had anything to do with how full he was, since that kid could sleep anywhere and at any time), and Dean didn't want to wake him up. The less contact they had, the better. Considering they pretty much lived out of each other's back pockets and had for over thirty years, Dean knew opportunities to cut down on contact would be few and far between.

It wasn't even midnight by the time they got home, but Dean was dead on his feet as he eased the Impala into the garage. He could barely keep his eyes open, his head felt full and heavy, and he knew his reflexes had to be shot. If they'd been one town further into Oklahoma, he'd've had to pull over and spend the night on the side of the road so he didn't wind up upside down in a ditch or wrapped around a telephone pole. That would've meant sleeping in the car. Right next to Sam. Good thing that ghost had popped up where it had.

Sam stirred as Dean killed the engine and opened his door. He ignored him and climbed out, not in any shape to have another conversation tonight. He was tired enough to slip up, break down, get weak. Neither of them could afford that.

Everything would be fine if DEan could just get to his room, fall into bed, and forget about today. And the last couple months. But Sam's voice, husky with sleep, caught him before he could make it out of the garage and into the bunker.

"Dean?" Dean glanced over his shoulder to see Sam swinging his legs out of the car and standing up. He must've digested a little while he was sleeping; he didn't look quite as big.

"What's up?" Dean asked, reluctantly. Just booking it to his room without replying to Sam would probably make more problems than it'd solve.

"Well, uh..." Sam shoved his hands into his pockets, smiling almost nervously. "It's not that late, and I know we've still got some beer in the fridge. I was just wondering if you...wanna watch a movie or something? Unwind from the hunt?"

Dean _did_ wanna do that, despite how badly he also wanted to go to bed. It was probably because he wanted to go to bed. If he'd been fully awake, he wouldn't've let himself want to get so close to Sam. Not after what'd happened, or how he'd been feeling lately.

"Look, Sam," he started, letting some of his exasperation with himself leak into his voice, where it'd hopefully scare Sam off before he said anything bad. "Today I spent six hours on a nature hike from hell and three hours busting sod. I'm sunburned and blistered and I'm feeling every move I make in places I forgot I had." He patted the small of his back to punctuate the statement. "I'm guessing I'm probably not gonna be able to move tomorrow morning. Maybe I'm just getting too damn old for this. But all I wanna do right now is go to bed."

"Um. Okay." Sam sounded disappointed. Dean tried not to care. "Well...d'you wanna have a beer anyway? Just one. I kinda wanted to ta - "

Irritation sparked like a headache behind Dean's eyes. Or maybe it was an actual headache. He was tired and probably dehydrated, and he could've been allergic to any one of the billion plants that'd been growing out on that stupid prairie. There were a lot of things that could've triggered it, but which one it was wasn't important. What was was that his patience with Sam had run dry the second it'd started. So he cut him off.

"No. Jeez - did you not hear me? I just wanna go to sleep." Dean was sick and tired of feeling like this, and thinking about it, he was pretty sure it was Sam's fault. This thing inside him had been dormant for years, and Sam's new behavior had just barely woken it up. All Dean had done was feed him up once. That couldn't've led to him glutting himself at every single meal for months. "Just leave me alone." If he'd stayed in Oklahoma and used the number Beth had given him, there was every chance he'd already be asleep right now. With clean pipes, too. And he'd probably be in her bed, so Sam wouldn't be around, tempting and bothering him. He regretted his decision, so he went out and said that. "Should've called that waitress."

He'd turned around by that point, and was heading up the stairs that led into the bunker, so he didn't see Sam's reaction. Probably wasn't important. Especially since all that mattered to Dean right now was getting away from him so that he could get the storm of guilt and longing in his stomach to settle down.

The bunker was a blur until Dean got to his room; good thing he hadn't had to keep driving. As soon as he made it, he opened the door, but didn't turn on the light. He didn't need it to kick off his boots, step out of his jeans, and collapse face-down on his bed. He laid there for a second, then humped his way up the mattress like an inchworm until his head rested on the pillow, too tired to use his limbs or even remember that he had them.

A few minutes later, shockingly enough, he was still awake. He heard Sam pad past the door he'd left open and thought about calling him into his room to apologize for biting his head off. Have that talk he'd wanted. He also thought about getting under his covers instead of just laying on top of them. That one'd be real easy, since he hadn't bothered to make his bed before leaving for the hunt and everything was still all pulled back.

He fell asleep before he could do either. The one thing he'd regret in the morning, but the other he was sure he'd end up feeling extremely relieved about.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean had been right: when he woke up for the first time, around what felt like maybe six or six-thirty, he could barely move. Eight hours of laying in one position had let all the muscles he'd overused yesterday lock up tighter than all the bunker's outer doors put together. He'd known it would happen, he'd been through it before, but last night, the idea of uninterrupted sleep had seemed totally worth it.

Part of it could be the cold. Goosebumps had risen on Dean's calves during the night, and his feet had gone numb inside his socks. The bunker had a fairly decent heating system for being a hundred years old, but it didn't do any good if you didn't turn it on (which, of course, Dean hadn't bothered to do last night). Otherwise, the place was underground, so it was cold and damp even in the middle of summer. Especially at night.

He pulled his arms under his chest slowly, groaning, his shoulders and biceps protesting. They felt like stiff rubber bands that refused to stretch and might just snap if he pulled on them too hard. He pushed himself up on his elbows and shuffled to the side, so he was mostly on the bare sheets of his bed. He awkwardly tucked his feet under the covers, barely able to bend his knees, then twisted and yanked them up over the rest of his body with a heroic effort. He collapsed on his side when he was done, breathing through the pain of full-body muscle spasms.

This just sucked. If he'd been ten years younger and still hunting full-time, he wouldn't be feeling nearly this bad. Maybe he should start hitting the gym when they weren't out in the field, like Sam had used to.

Speaking of Sam, Dean couldn't even imagine how he had to be feeling. The hunt and, logically, what came after it had to've been way harder on him, with that spare tire of his. Dean hadn't gained weight like he had. Which was weird, now that he thought about it. They'd been sitting on their asses for an equal amount of time, and their eating habits were basically the same these days. Maybe Sam just had a naturally slow metabolism when he wasn't doing a hundred pushups every morning to jumpstart it.

Dean shifted uncomfortably as something besides his muscles started getting stiff. Morning wood hadn't even been an issue, so he'd assumed he was too sore for that to happen. Obviously not. He should try to think about something else. Like the fact that his room was pretty close to the kitchen and he could hear someone banging around in there.

Had to be Sam. The only other person who could get into the bunker, with all the warding they'd reactivated during the months right after they'd moved in, was Castiel, and he was busy hunting on the other side of the country. Plus, he wouldn't be in the kitchen anyway. Eyes closed, Dean frowned as he heard something that had to be the coffeemaker turning on. What was Sam doing up so early? And, more importantly, how was he _moving_?

He fell back asleep before he could think of any explanations.

* * *

Dean felt slightly better when he woke up again. He'd slept almost three times as long as he'd gotten used to, according to the clock on his bedside table, and it'd done him a world of good. Plus, he was nice and warm now under the covers of his bed. He must've moved around some in his sleep this time, too, since he was in a different position than the one he'd fallen asleep in, and that'd loosened him up a little.

All the pain that'd gone out of his frozen muscles had just moved north, though. Last night's headache had returned with a vengeance, kicking steel-toed boots into the sensitive inside walls of his skull every time his heart beat. It felt like he had a hangover. Or maybe the flu, but he'd been hungover a lot more than he'd been sick with the flu. He needed to get up and eat and drink something. And knock back a couple aspirin, just in case this wasn't from being hungry or thirsty.

He dragged himself out of bed and reached for yesterday's boots and jeans. He didn't like the idea of traipsing around the chilly bunker in his underwear, and pulling on those clothes was easier than grabbing clean ones out of his drawers. He'd put on something that didn't stink from all the sweating he'd done yesterday after he showered.

Something made him head to Sam's room first. Maybe he would've apologized, maybe he would've let Sam chew him out for being a douche last night. It didn't really matter, because Sam wasn't there. He'd left his door unlocked, as per usual, and Dean spent a few minutes standing in the doorway, taking note of the neat, familiar order of everything inside. He tore himself away when he started thinking about laying in Sam's prettily-made bed for a while to enjoy his scent.

He didn't find him in the gym, or the communal showers in the now-empty dormitories the lower-ranking Men of Letters had used back in the day, or the library. He wasn't sure why he was looking for Sam, since it'd probably be best if they didn't run into each other, but by the time he reached the empty kitchen, he was pretty confident that Sam wasn't in the bunker.

The coffeemaker was still on, keeping half a pot of the good stuff warm. No dishes in the sink besides a cup, so if Sam'd eaten before leaving, he'd washed, dried, and replaced everything he'd used. Not totally unheard of for him, but he didn't usually do that.

Dean poured himself a cup of coffee. Leaning against the counter to drink it black, he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jeans, where it'd spent the night. A napkin with writing on it came with it, falling to the floor next to his foot. He stared at it for a second, then scooped it up and shoved it in the nearest trash can as soon as he realized what it was. He wasn't sure why looking at the waitress's number made him feel irritated and disgusted with himself this morning, but it did. Maybe because he'd missed his chance with her.

His phone's battery was low, but there was more than enough juice left for him to thumb down to Sam's name in his short list of contacts and hit the "call" button next to it. He put it to his ear as he took a long pull from his mug.

Sam didn't pick up. It rang forever, then went to voicemail. Dean lowered the phone from his ear and stared at it, feeling the first pangs of worry in his stomach. Then he shoved it back in his pocket and took another slug of coffee, because it wasn't time to worry yet. Sam was a big boy in more ways than one (he regretted thinking that), he'd left the bunker on his own, and Dean didn't have any urgent texts or voicemails from him. It wasn't like it was Dean's job to keep track of him at all times.

Dean finished his coffee. It perked him up so much that he poured himself a second cup, then sipped it while he fried himself some eggs and bacon. He ate that with a third cup, deciding to forgo the aspirin because he was pretty much all better by then. Might as well go look for Sam, since it didn't feel like his eyeballs were in immediate danger of popping out of his face anymore.

He didn't bother checking the garage. Baby's keys were still in his back pocket, so he knew Sam hadn't taken her - he would've been pissed, and a lot more eager to find him, if he had. He'd left on foot. Dean walked up the stairs and opened the heavy iron front door.

The very first thing he noticed was the sound of someone sucking some serious wind. It sounded painful, and practically made Dean's own chest ache in sympathy. He stepped out into the little alcove that sheltered their front door, automatically looking in the direction of the ragged panting. He found Sam.

He was a little ways down the tree-lined road that led away from the bunker. He was doubled over, hands clutching his legs, just above his bent knees, so hard the white of his knuckles stood out even at this distance. His back and shoulders shuddered with every noisy breath he dragged into lungs that had to be raw and stretched out. The mid-morning sunlight gleamed off the sweat that clumped his long hair, hiding his face, together and matted his shirt to his upper body.

"Jesus." Dean swore under his breath, then jogged over to him.

Sam straightened up when he got close, with very visible effort. He was pale, eyes dull and open, wheezing mouth too pink in a paper-white face. To Dean, he looked like he had while he'd been doing the Trials, and that made him afraid on a very deep level. He reached for him without thinking about it, his body moving on its own again.

"Leave me - alone." Sam panted it out while staggering backward a few steps. Dean dropped his hand and gritted his teeth, remembering that that was something he'd said last night.

"I don't think so," he said now, shaking his head. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, the hell you are - what happened to you?" Before Sam even answered, Dean figured it out for himself just by looking at him. He was sweating and out of breath - it was an understatement, but accurate. He had his iPod with him, clipped to a band on his arm, which was a thing Dean hadn't even known he owned, and with the earbud cord draped over his neck. He was wearing a T-shirt, and a pair of tennis shoes, and, most importantly, shorts. Sam only owned a couple pairs of shorts and he hardly ever wore them, because Dean knew he was ridiculously self-conscious about the fact that his knees stuck out like doorknobs.

Kind of like Dean himself, who avoided shorts like the plague to keep people from noticing the way his legs bowed out slightly. But the point was that Sam only ever went bare-kneed when he ran. Which he hadn't done in months.

"Went for a run." Sam had bent over again, apparently not as concerned with staying away from Dean as he was with getting enough oxygen. At least he was talking easier now, and his breathing didn't sound like it was coming from an eighty-year-old lifetime smoker anymore.

"Yeah, I can see that." Dean knew he sounded condescending. Fine with him. If Sam was gonna act like a baby, he'd treat him like one. "Where? To Lawrence and back?"

"Tried for five miles," Sam replied. He sat down on the asphalt and put his head between his knees. Coincidentally, he was right in the middle of the road. Good thing the Impala was the only car that ever came down here, and that it was currently parked in the bunker.

Dean spent a minute just taking that in. Sam hadn't been on a run since...the waffle incident, now that Dean really thought hard about it. The most exercise he'd been getting had been on their infrequent hunts. They'd just finished one yesterday, and it'd been brutal, probably sapping a lot of the strength and endurance he had left. And he'd tried to run five miles in one go early this morning. All Dean could say was, "Are you _stupid_?"

"Brought water." Without lifting his head, Sam held out an arm. He had a plastic water bottle with a loop on its lid, and it was dangling from his wrist by that.

Dean looked at the bottle. It was totally empty.

"That's not enough," he stated, shaking his head again. He might not be as big an exercise buff as Sam was, had been, but he knew that much.

"Yeah, 'specially 'cause I threw most of it back up." Sam took his arm back. "Good thing I didn't eat breakfast." He stood up, slowly. Once he was back on his feet, he planted the heels of his hands in the small of his back and stretched. His face all but spasmed with pain as he did that - and his belly, currently empty but still round, peeked out from between his shirt and shorts. Dean immediately looked away. When he was done, Sam tried to stumble past Dean and into the bunker. "I'm gonna go lay down for a few...days."

"No, you're not." Dean caught him by the shoulder as he walked past him. It stopped Sam in his tracks, of course; he wouldn't have the energy to pull away.

"I wanna go to bed." And there was another thing Dean had said last night. Yeah, he couldn't tell Sam was sore about that at all.

"And you can do that. Probably a good idea, actually. But you're gonna eat breakfast first," Dean replied. "C'mon. I'll make you something. Still got a pan on the stove from what I had."

Sam didn't say anything in response to that. Just went inside the bunker with Dean. Dean kept a grip on his shoulder, switching hands so that they were facing the same direction. Sam was unsteady, shaky in the knees, and he wanted to have a head start on catching him if he went down.

He sat Sam down at the table in the kitchen, the same one he'd been sitting at the morning after the zanna case. When the waffle thing had happened. To distract himself from that, Dean focused on how relieved he was not to be touching Sam's damp shirt anymore. He was about to go straight to the stove, but then he remembered Sam's empty water bottle and filled a tall glass from the sink. Leaving that in front of Sam on the table, he got to work.

He already knew exactly what he wanted to make. Sam needed protein and carbohydrates, after running himself half to death, and, above all, calories. He got another two frying pans out of the cabinets; it'd be better to make everything all at once, so Sam didn't have to wait. He opened the door of one of the industrial-sized refrigerators (the only one they ever really used), the freezer, and another cabinet, getting out everything he needed. He cracked eggs into one pan, laid slices of bacon in the second, and dumped frozen hash browns into the third. They hissed in the oil he'd coated the hot metal with beforehand. Four slices of white bread went into their toaster. He would've done sausages, too, but they didn't have any. Which was his fault. He'd done the shopping last time.

Dean could lose himself in cooking, which was what happened now. And what'd happened when he'd been making those waffles. He knew he was good at it, he enjoyed it in the same way he enjoyed cleaning guns, casting bullets, and constructing spells, rituals, and potions, and it could take up all his attention. Especially when he had more than one thing going at once.

He was absorbed in checking the toaster, moving between pans, and spreading butter and cherry preserves on the toast when it was done. It didn't occur to him that Sam'd been watching him the whole time until he turned around, ready to serve him, and saw that he was staring at him.

"Here." He set the plates down in front of Sam. One of bacon and eggs, one of hash browns, and a smaller one with toast stacked up on it. Plus a fork. Sam looked up at him once he'd finished laying everything out. "What? Thought you liked this kinda stuff now."

"Wasn't so bad once I gave it a chance," Sam replied quietly.

"You want ketchup?" Dean asked him, instead of responding to that. He was afraid they'd end up straying into dangerous territory if he did. "Salt? Pepper?"

"Please."

Sam had drained his water glass, so Dean grabbed that before heading back to the fridge. A minute later, he returned it, now full of orange juice, to the table, along with a bottle of ketchup and the salt and pepper shakers. He honestly loved those shakers. They were the first pair they'd ever had; they'd never needed them before.

"Thanks." Sam picked up his fork and reached for the ketchup.

"I want you to eat all that," Dean instructed, with his arms folded authoritatively over his chest, as Sam drizzled ketchup over his hash browns. And then his fried eggs. God, what a weirdo. "If you ran five miles, you need it."

"I _tried_ for five miles," Sam corrected, scooping up a mound of hash browns with his fork. "I made it about two, then turned around. Forced myself to run back. So it was closer to four."

"Whatever. You still need it - 'specially 'cause you didn't eat anything before you left." That was the part Dean understood the least. He'd thought Sam knew better than that...and he didn't go without breakfast. Not lately.

"You want me to eat all this?" Sam asked after swallowing his mouthful of hash browns and ketchup. Dean nodded as he added salt to them. "Aren't you afraid I'll get sick?"

Now Dean swallowed, reflexively. The question sounded barbed to him, and he was sure Sam was remembering last night. At the diner. Suddenly, Dean was very aware that he really shouldn't be watching Sam eat. Keeping his mouth shut, he shook his head, shuffled his feet, and went to leave. Sam stopped him, though.

"Would you mind sitting with me?" he asked tentatively. He took a sip of orange juice before continuing. "I'm still not a hundred percent sure I'm not gonna pass out."

"Sure. Okay." Well, if that was the case, Dean had to stay, didn't he? He'd already had three cups of coffee this morning, and he was starting to feel the effects on his bladder, but he poured himself another one before he sat down across from Sam. That drained the pot. "Better safe than sorry."

They were quiet for a while. Dean stared down at the table instead of at Sam. He had to listen in case he keeled over, though, so he could hear him eating. At one point, Sam cleared his throat as Dean lifted his mug to his mouth to take a sip.

"Y'know, I read somewhere that coffee is actually kinda bad for you," he commented. His fork scraped against one of the plates. Toast crunched.

"Well, we're both gonna die, then," Dean replied, lowering the mug back to the table. "Again." If Sam was feeling good enough to be making small talk, he probably wasn't in danger of losing consciousness anytime soon. Dean should leave. Instead, though, he took a deep breath and raised his eyes to Sam. "Speaking of things that're bad for you. Why the hell'd you do this?"

Sam looked at him quizzically. His cheeks were bulging out with a mouthful of breakfast that he'd momentarily stopped chewing when Dean had spoken, but he quickly finished and swallowed so he could reply. "Do what?"

"Try to run five miles," Dean answered. "Actually run four miles. I mean, c'mon, man, you had to've known that you couldn't do that. That it was dangerous, even."

"I should've," Sam agreed quietly. Now he was staring down at the table instead of looking at Dean. He'd stopped eating. "But I didn't. I just thought it'd be hard. I had no idea I'd end up puking on the side of the road. And seriously considering calling an ambulance."

"Why didn't you call _me_?" Dean demanded.

"I knew you were tired."

"So? If you were that bad, I would've come and got you," Dean replied, a little angry (and scared) that Sam had thought he was in real trouble and he hadn't known about it. "I called _you_ , but you didn't pick up."

"It doesn't matter, does it?" Sam asked. "I'm fine."

"Well, not really." Dean shook his head, frustrated. "Lemme put it another way. You thought it'd be hard. So why'd you do it today? You haven't done it forever. Whatever I've seen you doing down in the gym lately is working fine - what is that, like, resistance training or something?" He didn't know all the buzzwords. He wasn't sure Sam did, either. "You were fine on this last hunt. It was hell on both of us, but you did great." Maybe even better than usual. It'd been so long between hunts Dean was having a hard time comparing Sam's performance on this last one to his baseline. But even though he might've been a little slower, he'd also held out a lot longer. Maybe because he actually had some fat reserves now.

"It's just simple exercise. Keeping active - for hunts," Sam replied. "The running...and all the other stuff I was planning on doing today...was to lose weight."

Dean's first reaction to that was surprise, which was just stupid. For some reason, he'd been under the impression that Sam wasn't aware of the weight he'd been putting on. He'd clearly noticed, though; he wouldn't've bought bigger jeans if he hadn't.

"Don't really see the point in doing all that stuff if the weight's not keeping you from hunting," Dean replied. And there his body went, moving on its own again. He hadn't meant to say anything, much less that. He took another sip of coffee to try and keep from saying anything else, but that stopped working as soon as he swallowed. "Pretty sure you don't _like_ throwing up and not being able to breathe, so there's not even that."

Sam didn't say anything. Not right away, at least. He still wasn't looking at Dean, and after a second, he picked up a strip of bacon and took a bite.

"I don't like being fat, either," he said through a full mouth.

"You're not fat." It was automatic, after years of targeting insecure, lonely women in bars, but it was true, too. Sam definitely wasn't fat. With all the muscle definition he still had in his chest, arms, and legs, he probably couldn't even really be called "chubby." Maybe "plump." Thinking the word made the skin at the base of Dean's spine tingle, and he swallowed, managing not to add anything onto that.

"Compared to how I usually am, though?" Sam asked. He'd finished his bacon, and didn't reach for another strip. "I kinda am."

"Okay, so, if you hate it, then why..." Oh, no. No way. Dean couldn't ask this question. It'd be better to abruptly get up and leave, and then lock himself in his room for the rest of the day. But his legs wouldn't move, and his mouth just kept running. "...did you let it happen? You've gone for a run every single day for at least six years, unless something major happened. You kept doing that even when you stopped hitting the gym in every town we went to." The massive, broad muscles that the soulless version of Sam had built up for...whatever reason had melted away, leaving behind a leaner, lankier build. More like what he'd had in his early twenties. Dean had appreciated that, but it hadn't been anywhere near as dangerous as _this_ , now, was. "You didn't get hurt. Far as I know, you didn't get sick, either, or cursed or anything. Seems to me like you could've kept it off, if you really wanted to. So...why?"

Oh, man. Dean had broken out in a light sweat while he'd been talking, like the one that cropped up right before a hearty round of food poisoning-induced upchucking, panicking inside about the words that were coming out of his mouth. He prayed (or would've prayed, if he hadn't known God'd been gone for years - and was a dick besides) that Sam wouldn't answer the question. And, for a while, it looked like he wasn't going to, as he played with his fork and stared down at the table with unfocused eyes. Dean let himself feel relieved. That feeling died when Sam sighed and spoke up.

"I screwed up," he mumbled. "I thought..." He stopped, started again. "I tried..." That didn't pan out, either. "I misread everything. I was way off - I was wrong. It didn't work at all." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "I'm just glad I figured it out before I did too much damage to fix."

"What were you trying to do?" Dean asked quietly. That might've been a voluntary question.

Sam looked at him, finally, and opened his mouth. He looked almost defiant for a second, but then it was gone, and he shut his mouth and looked away again. His shoulders tensed, and Dean realized he was gripping the seat of his chair. He swallowed; his Adam's apple bobbed. Then, eventually, he let his eyes slide closed, and a look of utter defeat settled over his face. Dean had seen that expression before, but not often. It took a lot to make optimistic, idealistic, righteous, determined Sam give up on everything, to realize that nothing he'd wanted to happen was going to.

"Get your attention," Sam responded softly.

Dean opened his mouth. Not to say anything - his jaw'd mostly just dropped open in confusion and disbelief. Sam must've misunderstood, though, because suddenly, a whole frantic speech was pouring out of him as he continued before Dean could reply.

"I know how you feel about me," Sam said. "And I know how I feel about you. And I also know that we've both felt this way for a long time, but neither of us has ever said anything 'cause we were afraid, or maybe 'cause we felt like it wasn't the right time with everything going on." He paused to take a breath. For once, Dean's body was actually doing what he wanted it to do: letting him stay quiet and listen. "But we're kinda in a lull right now. I mean, yeah, we're looking for the Darkness, but she's been laying low for a while, and with how plugged in we are, we can be sure that we'll know it the second she makes a move. We've...got time." He'd moved his hands into his lap. He stared down at them, and Dean could tell by the movements of his arms that he was twisting them nervously. "I didn't know how to tell you that. Telling you didn't even occur to me 'til recently, and when it did, I realized that _you_ needed to tell _me_. That'd be the best outcome. And I thought I knew how to do that, 'cause I thought I'd figured out what you liked that morning after the zanna hunt, but..." He blew out a harsh breath threw his nose, sounding angry at himself, and shook his head. "I was wrong. I put all my eggs in one basket, and then I dropped that basket, basically. I blew it. I ruined everything."

Silence stretched out after that last word. Seemed like Sam was done, so with no idea what he was doing or where this was going, Dean cleared his throat.

"What made you think I wasn't into that?" Dean asked carefully. Because he knew exactly what Sam thought he'd figured out he was into, even though he hadn't come right out and said it. How could he not?

Sam put an elbow on the table and rested his forehead in his hand. His hair hid his face like a silky curtain as he talked. "Because, ever since I started this, you've been throwing yourself at practically ever person we meet when we hunt. You can't even look at me. I disgust you - you don't want me like this. And I'm not even sure anymore that you want me at all."

Dean's tongue felt wooden and useless in his mouth. There were a lot of things he wanted Sam to know, so many he was overwhelmed by the number, but he didn't know how to say any of them. He'd never been good with words, especially when it came to putting his feelings into them. After a little while of him not talking, Sam let out a long, defeated sigh and stood up. He swept his hair away from his face with both hands and smoothed it back over his head, revealing a tired face and flat eyes.

"I'll take care of this," Sam muttered, looking away from Dean as he moved to gather up all of his still mostly-full plates. "Then I think I'd better...go. To a motel. I can walk. I'll stay there for a while, and I understand if you don't want me to...to..."

Sam's voice, sounding miserable, faltered because Dean had reached across the small table and grabbed his wrist when he tried to pick up the plate of bacon and eggs. He hadn't thought about it, but it'd definitely been something he'd wanted to do. Sam wasn't sweaty anymore. Just hot. Maybe he should've given him something cold for breakfast.

"Sit down and finish eating," Dean said in his best big-brother voice. His fingers and thumb barely met around Sam's wrist or, rather, the base of his hand; he was huge, even without the gut. Dean could feel the hair there against his palm, and the thin, flat scars from where Sam'd used his forearms and the backs of his hands to block knives and claws. The more recent ones were a little raised. Ropy. Blood thundered under them, the beat fairly slow when Dean had first latched on but now thrumming like Baby's engine on one of her best days. He couldn't remember when he'd last been this aware of Sam - when he'd last let himself be this aware. "You're not going anywhere. And you're especially not _walking_ anywhere."

He waited until Sam had lowered himself back into his chair to let go of him. Dean was dizzy and lightheaded and his heart was going a million miles an hour, which was how he always felt whenever he was about to board a flight or do anything else that scared him. He wasn't entirely sure what was going to happen, and part of him just wanted to go back to the way things had been for thirty-odd years. There had to be a catch, because good things never happened to him. Or maybe this wasn't a good thing. He thought his younger brother had just admitted he loved him, and knew Dean loved him, and had spent more than two months trying to make himself attractive to Dean. Most normal people wouldn't see that in a positive light.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean watched Sam eat, and for the first time, noticed how he did it. How he'd been doing it for the past two months. Dean'd been so busy not looking at him or thinking about him that hit hadn't ever come to his attention, the way Sam enjoyed every bite. If you were really watching him, he somehow made you focus on his mouth, the pink, baby-soft lips. And his stomach, too, even though it was almost always going to be blocked from Dean's view by the table when they were sitting across from each other. He touched it a lot, and shifted in the chair like he had to find new, more comfortable positions as he got fuller.

He was putting on a show. Maybe it was a conscious effort, maybe he was only doing it now because months of performing at every meal he shared with Dean had made it a habit. Either way, as the person it was aimed at, Dean felt guilty. In more ways than one.

If this happened, it was going to be complicated, but when had their life ever been anything but?

"You can just leave the rest if you're full," Dean told Sam the first time he cupped a hand over his mouth to hide a burp. A small burp. God, Sam's burps were just adorable, especially for a guy his size; Dean wasn't afraid to think that now.

Sam shook his head, grabbed another piece of toast. "I don't want to," he said before taking a bite. He washed it down with orange juice, then continued. "It'd good. I'd rather finish it."

Dean picked up his mug when he said that, draining what was left in it to distract himself from Sam digging back in. Just so he wouldn't get too excited. He grimaced; the coffee'd gone cold. He wondered when that had happened.

He stood to go start a new pot, but wound up just leaving the cup in the sink and going over to Sam. It would've been more normal to grab a chair and drag it over so they were sitting together, but that would've taken too long, and he was suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful need to be as close to his brother as possible. To touch him. Standing next to Sam's chair, Dean tentatively laid a hand on Sam's head, acting more on instinct than anything else. It'd been so long since he'd touched him like this. He'd forgotten how soft his hair was, even still damp with sweat.

Something tightened in Dean's chest, then released in a rush of what felt like adrenaline when Sam leaned heavily into his hand. He'd just taken a bite of one of the fried eggs he'd ruined with ketchup, so he swallowed that before looking up at Dean through his lashes. Dean was pretty sure he'd never understand how a guy Sam's size, and in his thirties, could look so vulnerable and fragile.

Maybe it was the look in his eyes, maybe it was something in his face, but Dean could tell that he was really afraid that he'd take his hand away and leave, that it'd all be over before it even started. Dean had to do something to reassure him. So he smoothed his hand over Sam's hair until he was cupping the back of his skull, tipped his head back for him, and leaned down to press their mouths together before he could chicken out.

They had kissed before, but he doubted Sam remembered it. He'd still been young enough to be considered a baby or a toddler. Their dad had seemed to think it was cute, but he'd put a stop to it once Dean had started going to school. Dean's memories of that time were, admittedly, pretty fuzzy, and he knew there hadn't been anything sexual about those kisses, but he was almost positive that Sam was a better kisser now. He stretched up to meet Dean halfway, putting one hand on his shoulder to keep him where he was. He kept his mouth closed, so it was pretty chaste by Dean's standards (maybe he was worried about what kind of flavor he'd have, since he had spent a lot of time throwing up this morning), but he could still taste his own cooking on Sam's lips.

When they broke, Sam was panting softly, looking up at Dean with his free hand on his stomach. Dean maintained eye contact for a second, surprised at how he didn't feel embarrassed or regretful at all, but then his gaze dropped to that hand. And especially what it was resting on. Sam's T-shirt had been more than loose enough to cover his belly while it was empty, as long as he didn't stretch, but what he'd eaten already had filled it enough to press noticeably against the fabric. The hem had ridden up slightly, letting Dean get a good look at a narrow strip of tan skin.

He took his hand off Sam's head and laid it over his hand as he knelt next to his chair. Sam's other hand stayed on his shoulder, and he looked down at him with a question in his eyes. They were bright, though, and his face was flushed high up on his jutting cheekbones. He wasn't totally sure what Dean was doing, but he liked it. That was how Dean interpreted it, anyway.

"What're you doing?" Sam asked.

"Just keep eating, if you really wanna," Dean replied, giving Sam's hand a squeeze. "I'll take care of you."

Sam went back to his breakfast. He used both hands, pulling the one out from under his older brother's so that there was nothing between Dean and his stomach but his thin T-shirt. He was so warm, again - and, oh, god, he was so _soft_. Dean remembered how hard and taut Sam had been all the times he'd wrestled with him and carried him in recent years; you could've cut diamonds on his abs. He liked this much better.

Dean was already sporting a well-established semi, from the kiss and from watching Sam eat earlier, but seeing his middle swell up right in front of him as he finished off what he'd made for him had Dean springing out to his full length in record time. The sheer fabric of the shorts Sam was wearing made it pretty easy to tell that he was hard, too. Dean wondered if he'd been that way after the waffles, then wondered why he hadn't noticed if he was. Maybe his stomach had blocked it from view.

Sam's belly grew steadily under both of Dean's hands when he put the other one on it, too. The layer of softness got thinner as it was stretched out, and Dean automatically pulled Sam's shirt up to the base of his ribcage at one point, trying to make him more comfortable. He started rubbing when Sam spread his legs slightly, using his fingertips to feel out air bubbles and cramping muscles, then working them out with his palms and the heels of his hands. Sam was so _round,_ and getting rounder, gut flowing seamlessly into the love handles that the elastic waistband of his shorts couldn't quite contain. Dean was absorbed by him. He didn't even noticed he'd stopped eating until he spoke up.

"Dean?"

"What?" Dean looked up, startled.

"I'm done." Sam scooted back slightly, stomach wobbling a little as he did. Dean tore his eyes away from that and stood up, looking down at the table. Crumbs, smears of ketchup and egg yolk, grease spots - that was all that was left. Otherwise, Sam had cleaned his plates. Dean's cock gave a little jump at that realization.

"Well, so you are." Dean bent over, gathering up the dishes, and couldn't help feeling disappointed that it was all gone. He paused on his way to the sink, looking down at Sam. He didn't think he was even as full as he'd been last night, right after dinner, so he could technically eat more. A lot more. Dean had seen how impressive his full capacity had been two months ago, and it had to've grown since then. He swallowed, and asked, "Can I get you anything else?"

"Pancakes," Sam replied, so quickly that Dean suspected he'd been waiting for the question. "I'd ask for waffles, but I've got no idea where you stashed the iron, and even if it's still around, I'm not gonna make you dig it out." He grinned sheepishly. "I've figured out that I've got a little bit of a sweet tooth."

Dean had actually tossed the waffle iron the same day he'd stuffed Sam. He'd known that the waffles weren't really to blame, but he'd figured that it was better to be safe than sorry. If Sam liked waffles, though, he'd have to buy a new iron. As for now, he could definitely make him pancakes.

He dropped the dirty dishes off in the sink; a real pile was starting to develop there. He moved around the kitchen, gathering up what he needed. A mixing bowl, flour, a new frying pan, baking powder, a plate, milk. Sam watched him, straddling a corner of his chair and with his full stomach on display as he leaned back in it, and didn't say anything until Dean went to grab that last ingredient.

"Can you use cream instead?" he asked. Dean paused with the refrigerator open, fighting off a full-body shudder of pure horniness. He was sure he'd fired a few drops of precome into his boxers at that.

"I guess I could." They actually had cream, since Dean had used it to make the sauce for a pasta thing he'd tried out last week. They'd been away for a few days, but when he opened the carton and gave it a sniff, he could tell it was still good. There was enough left to make pancakes, too. "Do you want me to?"

"I really do."

Dean whipped up the batter, heart going so fast it was practically humming in his chest and legs shaky with excitement. He used cream instead of milk, of course, and then added in chocolate chips, just for the hell of it. The pan had been heating up while he'd been mixing, so he was able to pour some of the batter in as soon as he was done with it. He used up the entire bowl making a stack of three thick pancakes. He almost topped it with syrup and butter, but if Sam had a sweet tooth, he should give him something sweeter. So he opted for whipped cream and chocolate syrup instead.

"You read my mind," Sam declared as Dean carried the plate and a new fork over to the table. He repositioned himself so it'd be easier for him to eat.

"Well, you seemed to like it when I got creative with the waffles," Dean replied with a shrug. He set the pancakes down, then felt a flicker of doubt when Sam hid another burp behind his hand before reaching for the fork. Maybe this was too much. "Not sure I should be giving you something so rich after you threw up this morning, though."

"I'm fine," Sam replied with a smirk. "More than fine, actually. Maybe the best I've ever been."

That was probably an exaggeration, but it was one that Dean could live with. He put his hand on Sam's head again, stroking his hair down to where it naturally curled against his neck in tight waves. Sam smiled up at him, and Dean smiled back.

They just smiled at each other for about a minute, widely and naturally, and Dean was sure that they would've looked like a couple of idiots to any outsider looking in. They were the only ones here, though, and this was what it felt right for them to do. Eventually, Sam looked away and started eating, and Dean knelt on the floor again, still smiling, basically unable to stop himself because he was just so happy. Kneeling on the hard floor was hell on his knees, but he didn't go for a chair. He was a lot closer to Sam this way.

Dean had to get up once, to get Sam a glass of milk. Other than that, he was free to worship his belly as he gorged himself on pancakes. It was kind of awkward to rub and watch from the side, so he moved under the table, between Sam's legs. Sam spread them further to make room for him. Dean's cock throbbed in time with the brutal pace his heart was keeping up as Sam's stomach bloated and rounded out, steadily, under his hands. He kept massaging, of course, determined to keep Sam from feeling any pain at all. When the waistband of his shorts really started getting tight, Dean pushed it down to give him relief. Sam's belly immediately spilled into Dean's hands and onto his own thighs once it was free of his shorts, heavy with breakfast food and soft with fat and with a red line running around it that marked where his waistband had been. Dean heard Sam sigh with relief above him.

He knew he was almost done when he heard his fork scraping the plate. One hand on either side of the massive globe that Sam's stomach had developed into, Dean just drank it in. That was more like it - he'd gotten bigger by nearly half the size he'd been when he'd finished the first round of breakfast, so he had to be getting close to his limits. Dean closed his eyes and leaned in, nuzzling the curve of his stuffed gut. He felt the coarse hair that ran down the underside of Sam's stomach in a trail from his belly button catching on his own stubble. Sam didn't exactly smell awesome, probably having sweated buckets on his self-imposed death march this morning, but Dean knew he wasn't much better off. He was used to it, and he could put up with it. A manly musk was kinda sexy, after all.

Dean kissed the cushion of fat surrounding Sam's deep navel, which hadn't been stretched totally thin by the huge load of fattening food he was carrying under it. It wasn't long before he was more mouthing at it than kissing it, using his lips and not his teeth, panting onto the satiny skin Sam had down there between the moles and scars. His hips rocked in tiny movements that he couldn't've stopped even if he'd wanted to try, cock straining against and leaking into the denim of his jeans. He barely reacted when Sam touched his head.

"Dean?" Sam burped. "I'm done again."

"Jesus, Sammy, you're gonna be the death of me," Dean growled against Sam's hot flesh, then pulled back. He reluctantly moved both hands off Sam, grabbing hold of the chair and shoving it away from himself so that he could out from under the table. Straightening up (and almost staggering, because his knees were stiff), he looked down at Sam. He was panting softly, mouth hanging open and the pink tip of his tongue visible. His eyes were still bright, though, without any sign of that slow, glassy, contented look that Dean knew meant absolute fullness. He'd had that after the waffles. "How're you feeling?"

"Full," Sam huffed out. Dean had to kiss him again then. Sam held onto him when he leaned down, and when they pulled apart, he mumbled against Dean's lips, "I want you."

There was a special emphasis on the word in the middle, and a whole other kind of emphasis on that last one. Heat bloomed in Dean's stomach and he kissed Sam again.

"Can you stand up on your own?" he asked when he was finished with that.

"No." Dean wondered if he actually could and was just asking for help as part of the show. If that was the case, though, he didn't care or want to know.

He took both of Sam's hands in his own and pulled him up, keeping a hold on him while he figured out his balance so there was no chance of him falling. Sam let go of Dean as soon as he was steady on his feet, putting one hand on the small of his back and resting the other on the curve of his belly. He blew out a long breath that ended in a soft burp, then half-grinned at Dean.

"I kinda feel like I'm pregnant," he said.

"Well, it kinda looks like you're pregnant," Dean replied with a chuckle.

"Well, technically..." Sam raised his eyebrows. "I _have_ been eating for two."

At that, Dean couldn't stand not to be touching him anymore. He moved in, putting his hands on Sam's hips and pulling him close. His fingers sank into the soft flesh underneath Sam's shorts and boxer briefs. They didn't sink far before hitting the sharp bones of Sam's hips, but the fact that they sank at all was enough to make Dean's cock sit up and beg. They kissed, Sam draping his arms over Dean's shoulders and pressing his over-full stomach against Dean's relatively flat one.

He pushed Sam towards the table. Reaching around behind him, he shoved the pancake plate to the other side, the fork on top of it clattering. He dropped his hands to Sam's thighs and pulled him closer. Sam gasped when Dean lifted him up onto the table, and Dean grunted with effort. It was only a few inches, but _damn_ , he was heavy. How much'd he gained, not including the food in his belly right now? Twenty pounds? Thirty?

Dean's groin was right up against Sam stomach, and that thought made him start rocking his hips against it. Sam gasped again, then moaned, his entire body quivering against Dean's. He wrapped his legs around Dean's waist, his rocky calves resting against his ass. His hands slipped under Dean's shirt, and the next thing Dean knew, Sam was raking his blunt fingernails down his back as they furiously made out and dryhumped against each other. Dean groaned loudly into Sam's mouth. He'd never actually seen Sam have sex before (even though he'd thought about it plenty, which'd made him hate himself), so he wasn't sure if this passion was normal for him or if it was just because he'd wanted this so badly for so long.

Dean's back burned where Sam had dragged his nails, but it didn't hurt. Whatever the reason, he was an animal right now, and that was exactly what Dean wanted.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean gasped in one of the rare intervals where they were both catching their breath. He felt his way up Sam's thighs, back to his hips and then up onto his love handles. They were rocking the table, which knocked over the glass Sam'd been using. Good thing it was empty. "You're fuckin' huge."

With his hands where they were now, he was in the perfect position to rip off Sam's shorts. He was sure there was something nearby they could use as lube, so they could just fuck right there in the kitchen. He didn't know how far Sam was comfortable with going, though. Sure, he was hard right now, and they were kissing, but that didn't mean he wanted to have real sex with Dean. Maybe he just wanted to be fed and touched. Dean hadn't ever noticed him showing an interest in other men, either, so it was possible he'd never had that kind of sex before. Which could be a problem. Maybe he wanted to top. If that was the case, they were gonna have to wait on the lovemaking, since there was no way he could pitch with that bloated gut in the way.

"I've got an idea," Sam panted into Dean's ear, where his mouth had somehow wound up. Dean's own lips had wandered down to the side of Sam's neck. "Make me one more pancake. But this time..." He pulled back, yanking his iPod and the band that it was on off his arm with fast, jerky movements. He wound his earbuds around it and put it over on the other side of the table, next to his plate. "Feed it to me."

It felt like a lightning bolt had just run down Dean's spine, straight to his cock. "You sure you can handle that?" He moved a hand to the bulging side of Sam's stomach. It was already so full.

"Yeah, but I'll have to take it kind of easy when we're done," Sam replied. "And you're definitely gonna have to help me to wherever it is you wanna put me."

That subtle implication that Dean got to decide what to do with Sam, at least when he was this full - that he _owned_ him - made something that felt like a tiny orgasm explode in his balls. He swallowed, taking a second to pull himself together and to feel around the front of his jeans with the hand he'd had on Sam's belly. Still dry, even up near the waistband, where the head of his cock was resting. So he definitely hadn't come. It'd felt like it, though. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before.

"Wanna take a shower?" Dean suggested hopefully. If Sam said yes, that'd give him a good chance to feel him out more thoroughly, both figuratively and literally. "Together? I mean, we both need one, and the hot water'd feel good on you. Both this..." He returned both hands to Sam's stomach, running his palms over it lovingly. "And wherever you're sore from your stupid run this morning." Dean was sore, too, yesterday's exertion still clinging to him. He'd all but forgotten about the pain in his muscles recently, though.

"Okay." There was no hesitation at all on Sam's part, which triggered a spurt of relief in Dean. "I mean...we'll see. Not sure how I'm gonna feel about standing by the time I'm done with this."

"I think you'll be fine." Dean gave Sam's belly one last pat before reluctantly tearing himself away. "You're tough."

He almost spilled the cream, making just enough batter for one more pancake. And the flour, and he actually did spill the baking powder, because his hands were shaking. That made him think that he maybe shouldn't be cooking while he was this excited. He managed not to burn himself or the pancake, though, and he didn't set anything else on fire. Sam did ask him if he was okay when he almost broke one of the big, heavy plates they'd inherited with the bunker, but he caught it between his knee and the counter before it hit the floor, so everything was fine. He'd always known the freakish reflexes he'd honed over roughly three decades of hunting would come in handy one day.

Dean put the pancake on the plate he'd managed not to break once it was done, then drizzled syrup over it and laid a couple pats on top of that. He carried the plate and a fork over to Sam, who was still on the table, legs spread to accommodate his overfed gut and hands supporting his considerable weight as he leaned backwards.

"You want me to feed you, right?" Dean asked once he got there, voice coming out deeper and huskier than he expected it to. He just felt like he had to make sure, because all this seemed way too good to be true, and he'd been bitten in the ass by things like that before.

"Yeah," Sam said with a vigorous nod. "Like you did with the last waffle that one time."

Dean stood between Sam's knees, holding the plate in one hand and the fork in the other, a little less than an inch between their stomachs. He cut a piece off the syrup-drenched pancake with the side of the fork, speared it, and brought it up to Sam's mouth. Sam leaned forward to meet him, opening his mouth and taking the ite like an eager baby bird.

Dean spent fifteen or twenty minutes feeding his little brother like that, praise coming easily to him and pouring out of his mouth in a steady, murmured stream. Sam's eyes were half-closed for a while, then fully closed, an expression of pure bliss settling bit by bit onto his face as he opened his mouth again and again for pieces of pancake. Dean stopped when he had to burp or, as they went on, hiccup, but other than that, they fell into an easy rhythm that neither of them broke out of until Dean realized two things: the plate was empty, and Sam's belly had expected to the point where it was once again touching Dean's, even though neither of them had moved.

Dean's cock throbbed, and his breath got caught at the base of his throat for a second. God, that was hot.

Sam was ready for more, lips slightly parted and eyes still closed. Instead of feeding him more pancake (which he kinda couldn't, since it was all gone), Dean leaned in for a long, wet, syrup-flavored kiss, then set the plate and fork aside.

"You're done," he told Sam when he pulled back. Sam opened his eyes, then looked down at himself, putting a hand on top of his stomach and stroking it almost fondly.

"Ooh, yeah," he agreed, then hiccuped with a smile. "Definitely. 'Specially if you want me, say...awake and functioning during our shower." He looked up at Dean with soft eyes. "Thanks for making that for me."

Those words brought back a flood of memories for Dean - recent memories, created within the last two months. Sam telling him to make extra for lunch or dinner or breakfast because of how hungry he was that day, Sam going for seconds and thirds and on up, Sam making requests when it was Dean's turn to go on a supply run, Sam asking Dean to make him things while they were doing research or watching TV or just enjoying some separate downtime in the bunker. And Dean doing or allowing all of it. Sam had gone out of his way to involve him, and he could've nipped it in the bud at any time, because it wasn't like he'd been oblivious, but he hadn't. Maybe he'd known what they both wanted and needed from the beginning, even though he'd been so dead-set against acknowledging it.

"So where're we gonna do this?" Sam huffed, pulling Dean away from his revelation.

"You know the showers down on the dorm level?" Dean asked, and Sam groaned.

"Oh, c'mon," he said. "You're really gonna make me go down two flights of stairs?"

"You could take the elevator."

"Right," Sam agreed sarcastically, smirking as if to acknowledge the joke. They barely ever mentioned the elevator. It was all but useless, and way beyond Dean's capacity to fix, so it might as well not have existed. "Like that thing's not a death trap."

"I'll help you down there," Dean promised. "Then you can get comfortable, and I'll go grab the stuff we need."

He left the dishes on the table and in the sink as he helped Sam to his feet and got an arm around him. There were much better things to do right now than wash the dishes. Maybe he'd be excited to throw himself into that later, when the hormones dried up and regret set in. Maybe regret would never set in and it'd just be a chore sometime this afternoon or tomorrow. Right now, though, everything was perfect and rosy and being as close to Sam as possible was a million times more important than the plates and silverware they used.

It was slow going, especially once they got to the stairs. Sam was used to his new weight, and he carried it really well, but the heft of his full stomach was totally different. He was panting, leaning heavily on Dean and swallowing the hiccups and burps that kept popping out of him. Dean didn't think it was a show anymore; this was really difficult for him. He kept waiting for the usual guilt and self-loathing to run him over like an eighteen-wheeler, because he was the one who'd done this, but it never came. Sam didn't ask to rest, so he couldn't be doing that bad, and the hand of the arm that Dean had around him kept brushing against his shorts where they were stretched tight by his undiminished erection.

Dean's own hard-on wasn't going anywhere, either. Maybe guiding Sam down the stairs at a snail's pace wasn't all that sexy, but they were on their way to share a shower, and the plush parts of him were pressed hard against Dean. Plus there was his belly, which he had no hope of taking his eyes off of.

Dean hit the lights when they reached the dorm showers. Like most of the lights in the bunker, they were old but reliable: they buzzed and flickered, but they came on and stayed on, illuminating a huge, tiled room. There were lockers, most of which Dean had jimmied open out of boredom at one point or another (there wasn't anything good in any of them), and benches in the center, and the outer part was divided into big sections by walls lined with shower heads that went three-quarters of the way up to the ceiling. There were no curtains or doors. As Dean understood it, the bunker had been populated almost exclusively by men during its heyday, and apparently homosexuality hadn't been a thing back then, either, so there'd been no need for privacy.

They tended to use the showers on the floor their rooms were on - the tiny bathrooms off their bedrooms had sinks and toilets, but no showers. Those were more enclosed and, honestly, a lot nicer, but Dean wanted the space in these. Plus, if you turned on all the heads in one section, it got warm and steamy really fast, and the streams intersected in the middle, which was where you'd wanna stand. Bliss.

"I don't remember the last time I came down," Sam panted, peeling himself off Dean and sinking onto one of the benches.

"I used it when I sprained my back chasing that damn rawhead in Michigan," Dean replied. "Just laid down on my stomach and let it pour down on me. Actually fell asleep. It was awesome."

"You laid face-down on the floor?" Sam made a face. "In a communal shower?"

"Whatever was growing here..." Dean indicated the floor. "It's been dead for fifty years. Not gonna catch anything." He patted Sam's shoulder. "You go ahead and strip down. I'll be right back."

"Uh huh." Sam was sitting on the end of a bench, straddling it and leaning back onto the large hands he'd planted behind himself. His eyes were closed, his head tipped back. His chest was heaving, making his love handles jiggle; his stomach, firm with fullness, barely moved at all. Dean left him to catch his breath once he'd burned that image into his memory, practically running back up the stairs to his room.


	4. Chapter 4

In his room, Dean grabbed his shower caddy, a clear plastic basket holding a shampoo/conditioner all-in-one, body wash, shaving cream, his razor, and a couple washcloths. And a bottle of silicone-based lubricant, because showers were a good place to work out tension, though he hadn't done that in a while. This thing was a necessity with a separate bedroom and shower, but Dean hadn't even known it existed. Sam'd had to enlighten him. He'd had one at Stanford when he'd lived in the dorms, where the shower situation was fairly open.

Dean just barely remembered to grab towels, then headed back downstairs. He pushed open the door to the showers and immediately noticed how much steamier the air was inside. Sam must've already started the water. He found Sam's clothes on the bench where he'd been sitting, and felt a shiver of new arousal at the realization that his brother was naked and waiting for him. He set his caddy down, practically ripped his own clothes off, then picked it back up and made a beeline for the section Sam had so obviously chosen.

"This was a really good idea you had," Sam commented as soon as the two of them were within each other's lines of sight. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the sound of water bouncing off the tiles. "I feel a lot better now."

Dean walked in under the hot spray and the concentrated steam, the tiles warm and slick under his feet and his hair matting almost immediately to his scalp. He dropped the caddy near the wall, then grabbed the shampoo/conditioner bottle and joined Sam in the middle. It'd been a long time since he'd seen Sam even partially naked, and even then, it'd just been glimpses, usually caught out of the corner of his eye. Sam never really lounged around without any clothes on, and Dean had always been afraid of what might happen if he allowed himself to look longer, so he'd never gotten to stare and get his fill like he was now. Sam smiled when Dean reached for him, and let him touch. Dean started by laying his free hand on Sam's anti-possession tattoo, re-inked ASAP after Castiel burned it off to allow Crowley to tangle with Gadreel, and then dragged his fingertips down to one of Sam's nipples. The dusky skin hardened immediately under his touch, and Sam's chest swelled as he sucked in a breath.

"Sensitive there?" Dean murmured. They were standing close enough to each other that he didn't have to shout.

"Didn't used to be," Sam replied. "I've got tons of new erogenous zones lately, though."

"Ooh, big word." Dean dropped his hand to what he assumed was Sam's main new erogenous zone: his belly. A shudder rolled through Sam and into Dean at the contact, and he rubbed slowly. There was still some give, but it was pretty firm for the most part, indicating just how full he was. Dean wanted to get closer, but he wouldn't be able to keep looking at Sam's stomach if he held him or started up another makeout session.

Sam's middle was shiny with water, and pink from the heat. That was a great image, especially with the flushed head of his rock-hard dick clearly visible underneath, but Dean almost felt like a stuffed belly was sexier when it was peeking out from between a shirt and pants. That was news to him, since he'd never explored this kink of his before or even let himself think too deeply about it.

"Like what you see?" It was a low murmur, and Sam's voice was husky, but the question still sounded almost cautious to Dean. Like he wasn't totally sure of the answer and was even a little afraid of what it might be.

"Course I do." Dean was sorely tempted to just drop the shampoo bottle so he could put both hands on Sam. He settled for moving in and kissing him instead. "You're gorgeous, and not just 'cause you ate about half your weight in breakfast food this morning."

Sam laughed softly against Dean's mouth. That made that gut of his move a little, and it brushed against Dean's cock. Dean bit back a moan as his knees turned to jelly. "I'm not quite there yet, but I'm glad you're impressed." He reached around his own stomach and pinched the tip of Dean's dick. Fucking _pinched_ it, with the pads of his callused fingers. "I mean, I can tell you're impressed."

"Christ," Dean swore breathlessly, unable to hold an outburst back this time. He was so horny the pain actually felt good. So good that it took him way too long to realize the full meaning of Sam touching him down there. "I was gonna wash your hair, but..." He bent to set the bottle he was holding on the floor, then just went ahead and got on his knees while he was down there. He touched Sam, admiring the way the curve of his cock hugged the underside of his belly. "But now I think I'd rather suck your dick instead."

Sam found Dean's hand with his own, holding it. "You can do whatever you want with me." He pulled a little. Dean got back to his feet, slowly, not sure that that was really what Sam wanted. Who would turn down a blowjob? "But I'd really like you to wash me first. All of me - not just my hair. Then you can decide what to do."

Dean eyed Sam for a minute. They were still holding hands. He'd been hard for damn near ninety minutes now - and it'd literally been months since he'd come. He felt like he was backed up to his eyeballs, and he just wanted relief. Jerking himself off while blowing Sam sounded pretty great right now. But Sam clearly wanted something else, and since Dean had been unbelievably selfish the last time they'd done anything like this, he caved.

"Okay," he said, giving Sam's hand a squeeze before letting go and picking the shampoo bottle back up. "Whatever you say."

"It won't kill you to wait," Sam murmured as Dean moved around behind him to do his hair. "And think of it this way: it'll give me time to digest."

"Yeah, okay," Dean admitted. He hadn't thought of that, but no matter how turned on Sam was by feeling full (was he at all? Or was it just Dean's attention making him hard?), any kinda sex act would be tough for him if he was stuffed to the absolute gills.

Dean squeezed white soap into the palm of one hand. He made it a generous amount. He usually went with something around the size of a quarter when he was doing himself, but Sam had way more hair, and his run had soaked it totally through with sweat. That was also why he did his best not to miss any spots, starting at Sam's scalp and slowly working his way down to where his dark hair curled and waved at the ends. As easy as it'd be to just pile everything up on top of his head and scrub, Dean knew that that'd lead to snarls and tangles. He let it hang, rubbing pieces between his thumb and fingers.

Sam groaned in pleasure when Dean went back up to the top and started massaging his scalp with his fingertips. "Oh, my god, you're good at this."

"Yeah," Dean agreed with a smirk. He was getting a real workout here; not only did he have to reach up to wash Sam's hair, but Sam had always unconsciously leaned back against him while he worked, resting most of his weight on Dean's chest. "Practice makes perfect, and I've showered with a _lot_ of girls."

"Shut up. Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean replied automatically, grabbing the top of Sam's head and ducking him under one of the streams of hot water to rinse the soap out of his hair.

Body wash was next, and that was a lot more fun. Going over practically every inch of Sam with soap-slick hands let Dean discover his brother in an entirely new way. Just as he'd suspected before ever even laying a finger on him, Sam's upper body and legs were still defined by hard, angular planes of muscle. Sharp calves, well-developed biceps, broad pecs. In the middle, though...he was all softness and curves. The belly, of course, and then love handles substantial enough for Dean to cup, widened hips, thickened thighs, and then there was his ass. Dean had been too focused on his front up 'til now to pay much attention to it, but it was round, and pillow-soft when he touched it. The idea of pounding into that sent a blurt of hot precome onto the tiles between Dean's feet. This, he realized, was why Sam had wanted him to wash him first.

They weren't washing each other. Dean was doing all the work, with Sam standing there with eyes closed and only moving to lean into his touches. That was fine; he was probably feeling sleepy from the warmth and his full stomach, and Sam had been more than pulling his own weight for the last two months. It was time for Dean to return the favor.

With Sam not talking, though, Dean had time to think. Which was never a good thing.

"So, earlier, you were saying that you wanted to lose weight," he said eventually. He was below Sam's waist now, working on the patch of neatly-cropped pubic hair that his treasure trail connected his belly button to. Maybe not the best time to try and have a serious conversation with him, but Sam had always seemed less distracted by goings-on in his junk than Dean was. "Hope you realize that's not gonna happen if you keep eating like this."

Dean was crouching (his knees were gonna kill him tomorrow), so Sam looked down at him. Only his eyes were visible over the curve of his belly, which hadn't deflated much yet, but that was enough for Dean to see his eyebrows rise sarcastically.

"Yeah, Dean, I had figured that out," he replied. "Thanks."

"No, I just..." Dean sucked his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on it. And he dropped his hands to his own thighs. He'd been about to wash Sam's engorged cock and balls, but nobody could focus through that. "You said you didn't like being fat.

"Well, d' _you_ like me fat?" Sam asked.

Just the question itself was hot, so Dean immediately answered, "Hell yeah." He laid a hand on the underside of Sam's stomach, which was striped and wreathed with suds. "I wouldn't say you're fat yet, but I definitely like it."

"You said 'yet,'" Sam pointed out. "You want me to keep gaining?"

Well, apparently, they were being totally honest today, so... "I know it's selfish as hell, but I do."

"It's not selfish. This is what you like." Dean was about to stand up, since it just felt weird to be talking about something this heavy (pun intended) on different levels, but then Sam sat down instead. He lowered himself to the tiles with a grunt, making sure that he was in the spray of water to rinse all the bubbles off. He folded his legs, put his hands behind himself, and leaned back. He looked comfortable.

"It's not what _you_ like, though," Dean pointed out, sitting down next to him. The tiles were actually cold compared to the air and water, which was kind of a shock to his ass and balls. "And I'm not just gonna _use_ you without even asking what you want. I already did that a couple months ago, when I made you eat all those waffles, and it..." He shook his head, trailing off. It'd felt like something that would've seemed okay to him back when he'd still had the Mark of Cain on his arm, and he was so ashamed of that that he didn't want to say it out loud.

"Have you - is that how you saw that?" Sam looked almost stricken. "Have you been beating yourself up over that for the past six weeks?" Dean sucked in a breath, but didn't get a chance to answer. He probably didn't need to, anyway. "I guess that explains why you wouldn't look at me or anything." Sam tipped his head back, drawing a loud breath in through his nose. "I guess...lemme ask you something, Dean. Or a few things. Are you gonna take care of me when I'm stuffed like this?" He laid a hand on his belly. Either he'd digested some by now, or this conversation had broken him out of his impending food coma; he'd lost that sleepy look, and he wasn't hiccuping or burping nearly as much anymore. "Like, belly rubs and stuff."

"Of course," Dean replied. Had he not done enough of that today?

"Will you keep touching me?" Sam asked. "Are you attracted to me? Will you feed me what I want? Are you gonna treat me like more than just your little brother?"

"You _know_ I'm gonna do all that."

"Do you love me?"

Dean squirmed. They were stepping outside his comfort zone again. He'd always been way better at demonstrating his feelings than talking about them. He didn't tell monsters and demons he hated them - he blew holes in their faces. And he hadn't let Sam know that he'd wanted to have sex with him - he'd groped him and kissed him and made no effort to hide his raging boner. Which was still in desperate need of attention, by the way. "Yes."

"Then I like this." Sam ran his hand down the curve of his engorged stomach, looking to Dean like he was indicating both his new eating habits and the results of them.

"But just 'cause I'm paying attention to you?" Dean asked, frustrated. "I'd do that anyway if you wanna go back to salads and jogging and shit like that. It's just a kink. I don't need it to want you."

Sam shifted, sighing through his nose - and then hiccuping. Dean was pretty sure he could tell what he was thinking: if he didn't need it to want him, then why the hell hadn't he made a move during all the years that Sam had been lean and health-conscious? He didn't have an answer to that that didn't sound ridiculous, so he hoped that he didn't ask the question out loud.

He didn't. "No, it's not just because you're paying attention to me," Sam said. "I just like this for _this_. I like it more and more the more I do it, and the more I learn about it. You ogling my ass is a definite perk, but..." Dean smirked. Sam smirked back. "It turns me on. I like feeling heavy. I like feeling weighed down, and soft, and...and overfed, and..." He shook his head. "It's hard to explain. I've never enjoyed food as much as I do now, except maybe when I was little - when I had Sully." Dean couldn't quite tamp down a twinge of jealousy in his stomach. "I'm sleeping better, too. When I'm not driving myself crazy over you. All this just makes me feel...safe."

"Yeah?" Sam's explanation was reassuring, of course, but there was also something undeniably sexy about it. Dean had moved closer to him without noticing.

"I _really_ liked you waiting on me hand and food this morning." Sam smiled. "Reminded me of when we were both a lot younger."

"I can keep on doing that." Dean loved the idea of taking care of Sam, actually. He'd built his entire identity around that as they grew up, and as Sam pulled away from him in their twenties and thirties, got more independent, stopped sharing and leaning and needing...he'd felt lost. He wasn't even gonna start on what being separated from Sam had done to him. Part of that had been because of the way he loved him. Giving into this, building a relationship that went past their shared blood, would bind them together in a wonderfully-permanent way. Dean wanted that, and now Sam clearly did, too.

"You sure?" Sam was smirking again. "I can be pretty demanding."

"Oh, that doesn't surprise me at all, Sammy." Dean leaned in, eyes closed, and Sam's lips met him halfway, much to his surprise and delight. He kept it short, breaking away in order to huskily whisper, "But that's okay. I can handle it." He touched Sam, something he'd been aching to do since he'd taken his hands off him. He went for his belly, of course; Sam thrust it against his palms with a loud, needy groan. There was a lot more give to it now, compared to before. "Planning on spoiling you rotten."

"Keep talking," Sam panted. Dean did, but only after he'd gotten to his feet and pulled Sam up with him. Regardless of the last athlete's foot spore in here having died before either of them were even born, it was kinda gross to sit on the floor if they didn't absolutely have to, especially while they were getting hot and heavy with each other.

"Oh, you're not gonna have to lift a finger," Dean replied, guiding Sam over to the wall, where his caddy still was. "Trust me. I guess you can keep doing research or whatever, but besides that, I want this ass parked." He laid a hand on the curve of said ass and gave an appreciative squeeze to underline the statement. Sam shuddered against him. "Let me cook for you. Whatever you want. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Snacks. Dessert. There's a lotta stuff I want you to try - you never would've liked it before. Then I wanna experiment, too. Buy cookbooks, look stuff up on the internet..." They'd reached the wall. Sam leaned on it, then jerked Dean against him with unexpected strength as they kissed again. "So you can look forward to that."

"Been an uphill battle for two months," Sam whispered. "With you actually helping me..." Dean felt him shiver with delight. He seemed to do that a lot; interesting how it was almost like he felt pleasure with his whole body. "I'm just gonna blow up."

"You better." Dean dropped a hand to Sam's belly, which his cock was bumping against (their hips were moving rhythmically again, bodies aching for the real thing), and massaged. "I'm thinking that, as long as you're awake, I'm gonna try and keep you somewhere near this full."

That earned him a moan, and Dean grinned, pressing lips that were puffy and swollen from hard, hungry kissing to the side of Sam's neck. He opened his mouth to taste the bronzey skin he'd just cleaned, and involuntarily bit down when Sam started feeling up his own ass. Not hard, though, and from the way Sam squeezed him, he actually liked it.

"Sounds like you're gonna be the best feeder a guy could ask for." Sam's breath was hot down the back of Dean's neck, where sweat had started cropping up from the exertion and the steam, and he could hear the smile in his voice.

Dean hadn't ever heard that term before, but it fit. "Gonna try my best, at least."

"Do you know what that means?" Maybe Sam had noticed the slight hesitation before he answered.

"It's pretty easy to figure out," Dean replied dryly, pulling back in order to make eye contact with Sam.

"Have you never done any research on this?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"No. I haven't." If, by "this," Sam meant this fetish, of course he'd never looked it up. He'd been so afraid of it for so long, and he'd spent pretty much his entire adult life pushing these feelings down as deep as they would go. Learning all the terminology would've been like admitting they existed.

"This is gonna be fun, then." Sam pulled Dean back, kissed him again. They'd lost a little of their momentum during that short conversation, but the passion came back quickly. "We've got a lot to learn from each other."

"I know what I wanna learn about right now," Dean replied, practically talking into Sam's mouth as he caressed his belly with both hands. It gurgled softly under his palms, like the cooing or purring of a contented pet. Not that Dean had a lot of experience with pets, but there was something about Sam like this that called them to mind. Warm, maybe still a little sleepy, dependent on Dean at the moment, well-fed. Overfed, even, pampered, plump. Safe, like Sam had said earlier. That might be the best part.

"When I'm stuffed like this," Sam said, in between kisses that heated up again, "I just like to sit back and _feel._ How full I am, obviously, but also how my body's working to break down all those calories." He laid his hands over Dean's. "And where it's gonna put 'em."

"Here, I hope." Dean slid his hands out from under Sam's, putting them on his hips. "Or here." He moved them to his ass, and wanted him so badly his cock actually twitched against Sam. He was sure he felt it. "Anywhere, I guess. I don't care."

"You just want me bigger."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, reaching up and burying a hand in the wet heaviness of Sam's clean hair. He kissed him, hard. There were teeth and tongues involved this time. "Softer. Rounder. I'm dying to watch you grow." He pulled back again, just a bit, so he could look down at Sam's belly, a softening globe between them. "Might have to stop going down to the gym every day."

"I won't need to. I'll get plenty of exercise." Sam rubbed their noses together, mirroring the movement of his pelvis down below. "We'll be making love at least once a day."

That sounded awesome. "You want that?"

"I wanna start today." Sam cupped the back of Dean's head, nipped teasingly at the edges of his lips. Dean responded by reaching underneath his stomach and running the fingers of one hand along the ridged underbelly of Sam's cock. He heard the effect that had in the way Sam's voice shook when he continued - especially when Dean bumped over a vein. "You've fed me. You filled me up." Sam was trying to rub himself against Dean's hand, probably involuntarily. "This was all about taking care of me to begin with, right? Are you gonna satisfy my other appetites?"

It was one of those things that normally would've sounded stupid, but right now, on the edge of sex, it was hot. Aware that he might make Sam come but willing to take that risk, Dean wrapped his hand around his younger brother's cock at the base and jerked it roughly down the length. Sam immediately cried out in reaction, hitting an octave Dean had rarely heard from him since he was fifteen. His hands had been on Dean's shoulders, and they tightened almost reflexively, the nails sinking into Dean's freckled skin.

"You're just insatiable, aren't you, Sammy?" Dean asked, after a couple of fevered kisses. "Don't worry. I've got you." He took a step back, put his hands on Sam's hips, and turned him around so he was facing the tile of the wall. "You said I could put you wherever I wanted, so...hands on the wall, feet apart, ass up."

Giving Sam those kinds of directions made Dean's heart race in his chest, and watching him follow them to a T practically made his blood sing in his veins. Sam slipped easily into the fuck-ready position that Dean had imagined, moving much more comfortably now that he'd digested a little, and put every part of himself that Dean wanted to see on display. Near-perfect ass, cock, balls, slices of full stomach visible between his legs and on either side of his hips...and the almost shockingly pink pucker of his entrance. He'd been shaving down there, keeping himself clean. He'd been ready for this for a long time.

All in all, if Dean'd had a camera handy, that would've been a picture he'd frame and hang on his wall. And when Sam glanced over his shoulder and gave him a saucy little smirk in profile, he could've drooled.

"So were you actually planning on _touching_ me, or...?" Sam asked after a second, raising his eyebrows. Dean caught a slight flutter around his hole, too, but he doubted that'd been a conscious effort on his part.

"Just admiring the view," Dean replied honestly. "Why? You getting impatient?"

"I feel like I'm gonna explode," Sam answered frankly. "And not just 'cause I pigged out on your cooking earlier." He nodded, as well as he could in that position, to Dean's groin. "Doesn't look like you can wait much longer yourself."

Dean looked down. His throbbing, iron-solid erection had probably moved past pink while he'd still had clothes on. He hadn't been paying much attention to it in the shower, but whenever he'd caught a glimpse of it, it'd been cherry-red, slowly darkening. It was edging into purple now, veins standing out sharply, and just looking at it sent a pang of desperate, almost painful need shooting up like a bullet from the base and into his skull.

Sam had a point. He got his ass in gear.

Dean grabbed his lube, the bottle still about half-full. He only had to lean to the side to get it. It was lukewarm when he squeezed some out, from hot water raining down on it for god knew how long; he had no idea how much time they'd spent in here. His only clue was how his fingers were pruning.

Like with the shampoo, Dean opted to be safe rather than sorry, squeezing a fairly large amount of lube out of the bottle. He didn't know, after all, how much experience Sam had. How loose or tight he'd be. He didn't want to hurt him, and he didn't want to ask him, either; even thinking about Sam's sex life where it involved other people who weren't him made Dean uncomfortable. So when he touched Sam's entrance for the very first time, the two fingers he used were coated in more lube than they'd probably need.

Sam reacted the second Dean made contact. Muscles twitched and tensed right where he was touching him, and Dean watched a shiver run up his strong, wet back. The water made it loud in here, and they weren't facing each other anymore, but Dean clearly heard him gasp. There might've been a slight whimper tacked onto the end of it, too, which Dean loved.

"God _damn_ ," Dean commented huskily as he leaned in. He put one hand on Sam's hip, right where his ass and his belly and his love handle all came together, and then, of course, his other one was on his hole. He started rubbing there, just getting the outside of him nice and slick before he moved onto anything else. "I don't even have anything inside you yet - hell, Sammy, I'm barely even touching you. You really that sensitive?"

"Been waiting on this two months," Sam gasped out. He'd dropped his head, his mass of wet hair tumbling forward off his neck. "No - fuck. My whole life, practically." He lifted his head again, looking at Dean with one eye through the curtain of his dark hair. "So yeah. I'm that sensitive." He bent his fingers, pressing the tips into the tiles that his hands were spread against until the color drained out of his knuckles. "Not sure I've _ever_ been this horny, Dean."

Dean was speechless for a second. Then he was guilty, because Sam was feeling so intense and he wasn't - there was clearly a disconnect between them. Or was there? He wasn't sure how long he'd maintained the erection that was resting against his wrist now, just waiting for him to finish prepping Sam, but it had to've been over two hours. He hadn't dipped or shrunk at all, so he was pretty sure that this was a personal best for him. He had a very healthy appetite for sex, even though it'd diminished a little as he'd aged, but usually, he would've either lost interest or come by now. And then there'd been that thing in the kitchen, that weird dry orgasm, which'd been totally new.

Maybe he didn't just have a fetish for overeating and weight gain. Maybe he had a fetish for Sam.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'll try not to keep you waiting too long, then," Dean replied. His fingers had stopped moving while he was pondering his own level of arousal, so he hastily started them back up. "And I'll try _really_ hard not to nut before I even stick it in you."

"Me, too," Sam replied breathlessly. "No promises, though."

"That's just fine." Dean rubbed Sam's hot, wet skin where he had a hand on him reassuringly. "One of us shoots too quick this time, we'll just try again tomorrow. Or this afternoon. Not like this is the only time we're gonna have sex; we've got all the time in the world to get it right."

While he'd been talking, he'd still been rubbing away at Sam's pucker, and he'd finally started to loosen up welcomingly under Dean's fingertips. That was Dean's cue to slip the very tip of his index finger inside of his little brother. Sam jumped in response, part of him locking back up, so Dean was past the first ring of muscle, but the second was still sealed tight. That was okay; it was Dean's fault for not warning him first.

"Sorry," Dean apologized. "You okay? That hurt?" It shouldn't've. Dean was almost obsessive about keeping his nails cropped as close to the ends of his fingers as he could get them, so he didn't wind up with blood and dirt and gunpowder and all kinds of other crap caked underneath them.

Sam grunted and rapidly shook his head in response. So Dean wiggled his index finger inside Sam, still teasing the outside of him with his middle one, until that second muscle opened up to him. Then he slid his finger in up to the first joint. Sam squeezed around him, hot like a furnace inside and slick from lube and water. He had to be a virgin back here.

Once Sam loosened up again slightly, signalling he was used to what Dean had inside him, he pushed in further. He kept repeating that, knuckle by knuckle, until Sam's opening was quivering around the base of Dean's index finger, and the tip of it was resting on a small, smooth mound up inside his hole. This was hardly Dean's first rodeo - he knew exactly what he was touching. He rubbed it with the pad of his finger, making sure to use the spot where the callus that'd come from throwing knives and pulling triggers was thickest and roughest. That little bud, hotter than the tight flesh that surrounded it, pulsed as Sam presumably shot precome onto the tiles in front of him. Sam's back arched and he started hollering.

"Jesus _Christ,_ Dean, c'mon, please, just _fuck_ me already - "

"I can't _fit_ in you yet, tight-ass." Dean interrupted Sam's loud pleading. "I'm not even gonna try 'til I can get two fingers up there." That'd be a little less than his girth right now, he thought. "Were you so focused on stretching this out that you didn't even think about down below?" He moved his hand to Sam's belly and gave it a pat. It was empty enough now to jiggle when he did that.

"Been using toys," Sam all but whined.

Dean was sure his own prostate pulsed inside of him as precome welled on the head of his cock in reaction to that. He sure had used up a lot of that since they started this; he hoped he had enough left to come for real. Preferably inside of Sam.

"Okay," Dean said, with difficulty. "Listen. While I try and get this in your ass..." He wiggled his middle finger against Sam's outside. "You're gonna tell me _all_ about that."

Sam was only too happy to do so. His account was punctuated with gasps and moans as Dean loosened him up, pulling his index finger out a little so that he could start working his middle one in. Dean got the gist of it, though. How Sam had never bottomed before (and Dean didn't miss the implication there that he actually had done it with other guys, just as the pitcher), and he'd never fooled around with toys, either, so he hadn't really known where to start. He'd figured out before anything else, though, that it was best to play with himself in this new way when he was full. He was already horny, and the way he explained it, doing that would tie stuffing to pleasure even more tightly for him. He'd experimented, moving up through a few different sizes and types. He'd realized that he liked the ones that didn't vibrate better than the ones that did. That was so interesting that Dean filed it away for future reference.

"Where're you keeping all these?" Dean whispered in Sam's ear, pressed up against him now, both fingers in him and gently scissoring to stretch him out. He'd found what Sam used to whack off once, going through his drawers looking for socks to borrow - it was a bottle of unscented lotion. That'd been before the waffle thing'd happened, though, so before Sam had started collecting dildos and vibrators, and so of course he hadn't seen any of them.

"Top drawer of my bureau," Sam replied. They were both sweating heavily by now; Dean wanted to reach over and turn the water that was raining down on them to cold, or at least cool, but he was reluctant to take either of his hands off Sam. "Lined up, neat. On top of my shirts."

"No lock or anything?" Dean asked. "You didn't even start locking your door."

"Course not." Sam twisted his head in order to look at him again, and that smirk was back. "Know how you snoop around in there - wanted you to find 'em."

"God-fucking-damn, Sammy," Dean groaned out, then pulled his fingers free of Sam with a wet _pop_. Sam shuddered, but Dean was too busy moving to react: thrusting his hips forward, plunging in, burying himself in his little brother. Just like in every wet dream he'd had since he was twelve.

Sam made a noise that was almost a mewl once Dean was sheathed inside him up to his hilt. He'd heard a lot of sounds from him today that were pitched higher than he'd known he could make. Sam was hot inside, hot like Baby's leather seats after soaking up a few hours' worth of July sunlight through her windshield, and almost silky. He felt subtly different from everyone Dean had ever been with before, man or woman. He guessed that that might just be in his head, but it sure seemed real.

"G-god," Sam gasped shakily. His hands were still pressed against the wall, and now he rested his forehead against it. His back and shoulders were heaving with the deep breaths that he was sucking in. "That feels so gooood..."

"You want me to fuck you, Sammy?" Dean panted against his ear. He had both hands on Sam's hips, fingertips sunk into the ample flesh there to pull him back against himself. "Right in this ass you've been fattening up for me?"

Dirty talk during sex was something Dean prided himself on, and Sam reacted exactly how he wanted him to. Better than he could've hoped for, actually. He blew out a giant gust of a breath, pressing his forehead more firmly against the tiles and his ass more firmly against Dean's hips. He twitched his pelvis around a little, too, like he was trying to fuck himself on Dean's cock.

"Yes," Sam all but begged. His voice came out a lot lower and rougher than Dean would've expected after that mewl. "Please. I - I need it, I need it so bad - "

Dean saw no reason to keep him waiting anymore. They'd been waiting too damn long already. Years, decades even, on both sides, if Sam hadn't been exaggerating earlier. And since this was all that waiting had been building up to, there was no way for Dean to enhance it other than by getting down to business.

He pulled back, first of all. He kept it slow, able to feel Sam's prostate against the underside of his dick, and drawing back until only his throbbing head was laying ainst that sensitive little bump. And then he thrust back in. With how he felt right now, it was tempting to go all out, but Dean forcibly reminded himself that Sam's belly was still full and bloated and tender. He had to keep that in mind, because the last thing he wanted to do today was hurt him.

He kept that up for a minute or two. Sam clenched and flexed around him as he set up what was a pretty sedate pace, for him. Moving back slowly, 'til he almost pulled out, to give both of them as wide a range of friction as he could, and then gently thrusting forward. Dean closed his eyes so that he could focus totally on what he was doing now. What he was feeling, the movements he was making, their bodies. His chin was resting on Sam's shoulder, his face pressed into his neck. His nose was buried in his soft, heavy wet hair, so he could breathe in the scents of his own shampoo and Sam himself. He wasn't in any danger of coming too fast like this (kinda the opposite, actually), but he was enjoying himself anyway.

"De?" Eventually, Sam broke into Dean's trance with a nickname he hadn't used in more than twenty years. Dean felt like he'd already used it once or twice today without him really noticing.

"What?" Dean panted, not stopping. He did force himself to slow down even further, though.

"You can go harder." Sam turned his head a little. Dean opened his eyes and pulled back slightly so they could look at each other. "Want you to, actually."

"But you're still, like - I mean - " Dean was both out of breath and finding it extremely difficult to organize his thoughts, with his hard cock pumping (slowly) in and out of Sam's ass. It wasn't a good combination. "Don't wanna wind up hurting you. Like last time."

"You didn't hurt me last time." Sam had to be just as out-of-his-mind horny as Dean was, but he hadn't been doing the hard work that Dean had, so he was more coherent. "Won't this time, either. I'm not made of glass."

"But - " Dean started. Sam cut him off.

"You don't have to hold back," he said. "I don't _want_ you to." He dropped one hand from the wall to Dean's, where it rested on his waist. "Dean. I know my body, okay? I know what I like. And what I'd _like_ is for you to put your hands on my belly and feel me, and just about pound me into this wall."

Sam sounded pretty certain about that, so Dean didn't bother asking him if he was sure. Today had been an emotional roller coaster for him, so he guessed it was fitting that he felt guilty again. About not knowing what Sam wanted, this time. But he was determined, too. This was just the beginning. Of course Sam knew his own body and what he liked but Dean would eventually get to know those things just as well as he did. Then there'd be no need for Sam to correct him in the middle of sex.

For now, he just followed his directions. He moved his hands to Sam's stomach, when he let go of him and moved his own back to the wall. He spread his fingers over the hot, wet skin, feeling the softness that'd come back as Sam digested and the taut fullness that still remained. He cupped his palms around the considerable curve, feeling scars and moles and sparse hair, only in a neat line right under his belly button. Then Dean dug his fingertips in, like he'd done when he'd had his hands on Sam's hips, as he started pumping in and out of him for real.

He used all the power hunting had built up in his thighs and back, the aches and pains from yesterday washed away by the hot water and his own arousal. From the way Sam arched his back and cried out in response, he knew he'd got it right this time. And when he squeezed him, holding his belly more tightly and rubbing roughly with the heels of his hands, Sam started bucking back against him.

His ass was like a cushion against Dean's hips every time he slammed home. Soft, rounded, well-shaped - Sam had to have the best ass he'd ever seen, and he wasn't just biased because he loved Sam more than he ever had anybody else. It'd been great even when he'd been nothing but muscle, when Dean hadn't let himself look at it for longer than half a second, and the weight he'd put on had only improved it.

Dean explored the rest of that new weight as he tore almost all the way out of Sam and then dove back in, pistoning back and forth over the trembling button of his prostate. His hands roamed over every inch of the gut he'd grown over the last two months and stuffed to capacity this morning, then moved up to Sam's chest, untouched (for now) by his regular gorging. Dean played with his hardened nipples, pinching and flicking just to get a gasp out of him, then dropped back down to his love handles. His hips. As far down on his thighs, where a brand-new layer of padding covered the usual muscle, as he could reach without having to stop moving or pull out of him completely.

Instead of just laying his face against Sam's neck, Dean used his mouth on the sensitive skin there. Especially his teeth, since he'd seemed to like it a lot when Dean had accidentally bitten him before. He didn't leave any bruises or hickeys, and he definitely didn't break the skin - just because Sam had wanted him to be rougher didn't mean he wanted him to actually hurt him. And he'd gotten hurt more than enough in the line of duty; he didn't need any scars from Dean.

It would've been way easier and more comfortable to do this on one of their beds. It was a freaking sauna in here, and in the very back of his mind, Dean really hoped that one of them didn't pass out from all this exertion. Dean could've done without the hot, steamy air that he was dragging into his lungs. But he doubted either of them could've waited through washing each other thoroughly, drying off, going upstairs, and setting up there. Then they would've had to shower again. Here, at least, the water beating down on them washed away the sweat as soon as it popped up.

This'd been Dean's idea, and he was making the best of it. He was loving Sam with his entire body, pouring years' worth of frustration and fantasy and pent-up desire into every thrust. Feeling Sam up the way he was, and driving himself into him practically as hard as he could, of course it wasn't long before he felt his orgasm building up in his balls. What surprised him was that Sam started to crest at exactly the same time. Mutual orgasms were pretty rare for him, even with over twenty years of experience under his belt.

"Dean - De - oh, god." Sam was breathless. "Fuck. So good. C'mon - I need - "

"I gotcha." Dean had moved his hands back to Sam's belly, but now he reached underneath it to grab his length and start jerking him off in time with his own thrusts. Forearm pressed into the yielding underside of Sam's stomach, he murmured, "You're sure soft, Sammy." Sam shuddered violently against him in response. Sensing that he was close to the edge, Dean patted his belly with his other hand and added, "Bet you're gonna need a snack when we're done with this, big guy."

That did it. Sam yelled, his cock jumped in Dean's hand, and his prostate contracted immediately under Dean's own dick. All three things happened at exactly the same time, and that triggered Dean's climax. As Sam came hard onto the wall in front of him and Dean's hand and his own stomach, Dean shot his load inside of him. He jerked his mouth away from the spot where Sam's mouth and shoulder met, where it'd been resting, because he knew he was about to bite down reflexively and that he'd draw blood if he did. Mouth free, he just wound up saying Sam's name over and over again as he rode the waves of his orgasm.

It'd been a long time. And this was Sam - plump, overfed Sam. Dean wouldn't hesitate to say that he'd never come harder or better than he did then. It had to've lasted damn near a minute; he knew he outlasted Sam, because he stroked him through his finish and Sam started going limp while Dean was still near the middle of his own. He kept thrusting the whole time, milking every bit of pleasure he could out of it, and breathing and shouting his way through. He might've blacked out once. By the time he finished, it felt like he'd spilled close to a gallon of seed inside of Sam. He'd been sucked dry.

He pulled his wilting cock out of Sam, taking his hands off him and stepping back. He almost went down like a sack of bricks when he did; he was lightheaded and his knees were Jell-O. He felt like he'd just finished the five-mile run Sam had attempted this morning, except maybe doubled or tripled.

In front of him, Sam was leaning heavily against the wall, breathing hard. Dean's come was dripping out of him, washing away into the nearest drain as soon as it hit the floor. He slowly used the wall to straighten up, then half-turned in order to look at Dean. His face was flushed and his eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide with pleasure and satisfaction.

"Good?" Dean asked him. Single words were about all he felt like he could manage right now.

Sam nodded, once, and Dean moved back in. He put an arm around him, then used his free hand to grab the handle that controlled the shower head directly above them. He turned it all the way to the right, then sank to the floor with Sam as the water falling on them rapidly cooled. It was downright icy by the time they got situated, which felt just awesome against Dean's overheated, exhausted body.

He wound up with his back against he tiled wall that Sam'd been leaning on during sex, his legs spread, and his arms wrapped loosely around Sam himself, who was settled comfortably into him. Sam was still raging hot, an almost-pleasant contrast to the cold water. Dean closed his eyes, just enjoying the satisfied, sleepy feeling that always washed over him after an orgasm and the scent and feel of Sam. He could feel him breathing, and one of his hands was resting on that beautiful belly of his. Dean knew how to recognize perfect moments when they cropped up in his life, even though he hadn't had that many, and this was one of them.

He didn't even try to say anything until the aftershocks had faded and some of his strength had come back. When he did talk, though, it kinda just slipped out, fueled by the moment and what he was feeling right then.

"I love you," he mumbled, into Sam's wet hair. He was resting the lower half of his face against his little brother's head.

Sam laid a hand on one of the arms that Dean had draped over his shoulders and squeezed gently. "I love you, too." He turned his head slightly, not nearly enough to actually see Dean, and quietly asked, "What're you thinking?"

"I just told you," Dean replied.

"Really?" Sam asked, and Dean could hear the frown in his voice. "'S _all_ you're thinking right now?"

"You just came about as hard as I did," Dean responded dryly. "What're _you_ thinking?"

There was a pause from Sam, then a sheepish, "Uh." Dean chuckled softly.

"Thought so." In the silence that came after that, though, Dean did start to think about things other than how much he loved Sam. Like always. Nothing good ever lasted for him. He heaved a sigh through his nose and spoke up. "If you really wanna know, I'm thinkin' about Am - the Darkness."

Sam shifted against him. "Really?" he repeated.

"Yeah," Dean admitted. "I mean...just that we haven't seen hide nor hair of her in months, and we've got no idea how to kill her or lock her back up, but we've gotta find her and put her outta commission, or god only knows what she's gonna do to..." He trailed off, at a loss for words, then gestured as best he could without taking his arms from around Sam. "...y'know. Everything."

"You're not thinking about how she's got some sorta hold over you?" Sam asked.

"Well, _now_ I am," Dean replied with a snort. "Thanks. _And_ I'm thinking about Casifer, and freaking Crowley, and how all the normal, run-of-the-mill monsters out there we don't focus on so much anymore still eat people, and..." He patted Sam's belly, gently. "When this is gonna become a problem for you."

"Well, I can put you at ease on at least one of those," Sam said. "Because the answer to that last one is 'never.'"

"C'mon, Sam - how many fat hunters have you seen?" Dean asked. "I'm not talking like you are now - I mean really, really big. If you keep putting on weight, if that's really what you wanna do, then how long before you can't keep up anymore? Not that I care so much about that." He was playing it off. He knew exactly how much he preferred hunting with a partner to flying solo, and how much he liked that partner to be Sam. "But you could...there're health problems to think about, down the line. 'Specially with what you've been eating."

Sam moved, grunting. For a second, Dean was afraid that he'd said something to scare him off and he was leaving. But no, he was just going up on his knees and turning around, so that he could put his hands on Dean's shoulders and look directly at him.

"D'you seriously think I haven't thought of that?" he asked. "Dude. C'mon. This is me we're talking about. I know what I'm doing." He looked up, squinting into the spray of cold water. "I'm starting to get kinda numb. Can we move over one?"

"Sure." Dean was experiencing some shrinkage, himself, which made him feel self-conscious even though he was sure Sam knew exactly how big he was. They scooted over to the next shower head, which put them close to Dean's plastic caddy. Sam touched his hair, then grabbed the shampoo bottle.

"Health-wise, there are spells," he said, popping the cap. "They're not easy, but we can pull 'em off." He poured some shampoo into one hand. "As far as hunting goes, we'll figure it out as we go." Dean closed his eyes in simple pleasure when Sam started washing his hair, massaging and scratching his scalp. "And Amara..." Dean let Sam move them to rinse the soap out of his hair. "Dean?" Dean opened his eyes. "Tell me the truth. Right now, with me. How do you feel about her?"

Dean blew out a breath, then leaned back on his hands and stared up at the ceiling, which he could barely see through the steam. He tried to suss out his feelings, really focusing. He wanted to go to sleep, but he was sure Sam felt the same way, and if he could make the effort to have a serious conversation, so could Dean.

"Like I could put a bullet between her eyes right now," he replied. "No problem." He hesitated, then continued honestly and slowly. "I feel like...if I'm around her...I'll be fine as long as you're with me. Or I'm thinking about you. She won't be able to get in my head like she does."

Of course, this was all guesswork. He wouldn't know for sure until he was face-to-face with Amara again. But he had a pretty solid gut feeling, and Sam looked satisfied. He moved on to washing the rest of Dean, repaying the favor that he'd done him earlier.

"I really, truly believe that everything is gonna work out okay for us," Sam said softly as he worked. "It always has before. Eventually. And now..." He leaned in, and Dean gave him the kiss he was looking for with a smile. "We've got this." He pulled back, looking soberly at Dean. "We deserve a break. We deserve to be happy. We'll just...take things one day at a time, okay?"

"Okay," Dean agreed. Sam had won him over, and not just because he was warm and happy and sleepy and really agreeable right now. "One day at a time, huh?" He kissed Sam again. "Then let's plan out the rest of today."

"What'd you have in mind?" Sam asked, smiling as he rubbed Dean's back, washing where he'd scratched him earlier.

"Well, a nap, first of all," Dean replied. "You can choose, my bed or yours." They'd probably be sleeping together from now on. He hoped so, at least. "Then...bacon cheeseburgers for lunch? And that movie you wanted to watch last night?"

Sam made a face. "We had cheeseburgers for dinner, and you made me bacon this morning. Pizza sounds better."

"We can do pizza." Dean nodded. "Pizza and soda. Think you can handle a large, uh, meat-lover's by yourself?"

Sam smirked. He took hold of Dean's wrists and guided his hands onto his belly. Dean's cock gave an interested twitch, despite the mind-blowing orgasm he'd just had.

"I can eat two."


End file.
